<iiS) 


&^ 


UbI 


HALF-HOURS 


GREAT  HUMORISTS. 


THE  CHOICEST  HUMOR  OF  GREAT  WRITERS. 


BY 

ZHARLES  LAMB,    TOM    HO®D,    F.    C.   BURNaM^ 
MARK    TWAIN,   AND  OTHERS. 


CHICAGO 

E)0NOHUE,  HENNEBERRY   &  G®. 
407-429  DEARBORN  STREET 


l30N0hUE  &  HENNEBERRY 

printers  and  binders 

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PREFACE. oc/^-'H- 


If  the  principle  which  should  guide  the  editor  of  the 
Treasure-Trove  Series  has  been  followed,  as  1  think  it  has, 
the  result  will  be  a  series  of  readable  little  volumes,  which 
one  may  take  up  at  odd  intervals  with  the  certainty  of  find- 
ing some  things,  I  would  fain  hope  many  things,  in  which 
he  cannot  fail  to  be  interested.  He  should  look,  in  the  first 
place,  for  amusement;  in  the  second  place,  for  variety;  if 
he  finds  these  qualities  here,  he  has  something  to  be  thanls- 
ful  for.  He  has  to  be  thankful,  at  any  rate,  for  the  labo" 
which  the  compiler  has  expended  for  him, — labor  which  i  > 
not  to  be  measured  by  what  is  accepted  so  much  as  by  a'"i.'\ 
is  rejected,  the  reading  of  many  books  to  no  end.  If  the 
best  books  are  those  which  are  not  written,  as  a  cynical 
critic  would  have  us  believe,  the  worst  books  are  certainly 
in  the  same  category,  "  a  happy  thought,"  as  a  great  living 
philosopher  would  have  us  believe,  which  is  not  without  its. 
compensations.  Not  to  dwell,  however,  upon  these  literary 
possibilities,  which  we  can  well  spare,  so  numberless  ai  '-^ 
the  books  on  all  sorts  of  subjects  which  every  day  brings 
forth,  let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  papers  which  follow. 
We  have  first,  from  the  pen  of  England's  greatest  humoi  'tt, 
a  serio-comic  protest  against  an  individual  with  whom  we- 
in  America  are  tolerably  familiar.  I  refer  to  that  ramp  tnt 
and  irrepressible  myth  "  the  noble  savage."  He  mr.de  his. 
earliest  appearance  in  English  poetry,  I  believe  in  Dryden's 
"  Conquest  of  Grenada,''  the  first  part  of  which  (they  l.ad 
leisure  for  continuations  then)  was  written  in  the  autumn- 
of  1669.  Here  are  the  lines  in  which  his  unfragrant  na- 
bility  is  embalmed: — 

"I  am  as  free  as  Nature  first  made  man, 
Ere  the  base  laws  of  servitude  beg-an, 
When  wild  in  woods  the  noble  savage  ran." 


4  PREFACE, 

I  have  forgotten,  if  I  ever  knew,  in  whose  mouth  this 
-•heroic  triplet  is  placed ;  nor  does  it  matter — enough  that  it 
Is  absurd. 

Sixty  years  passed,  and  this  elderly  aborigine  (when,  in- 
deed, was  he  not  elderly,  this  swarthy  autochthon,  whose 
origin  is  lost  in  the  night  of  time?), — sixty  years  passed,  I 
say,  or  to  speak  more  exactly,  in  the  seventh  lustrum  of  the 
eighteenth  century  (1732),  and  he  re-appeared  in  English 
verse,  no  longer  running  wild  in  primeval  woods,  but 
trained  into  a  respectable  member  of  frontier  society,  ignor- 
ant, no  doubt,  but  seriously  inclined — when  sober.  He  was 
the  discovery  of  a  poet  named  Pope,  an  ingenious  young 
Papist,  who,  dabbling  in  ethics  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand, must  needs  Avrite  an  "  Essay  on  Man."  Hear  the 
Jittle  man  of  Queen  Anne's  time : — 

"  Lo,  the  poor  Indian!  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind; 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk  or  milky-way ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope' has  given, 
Beyond  the  cloud-tapped  hill,  an  humbler  heaven; 
Some  safer  -world  in  depths  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  skives  once  more  their  native  land  behold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  be  contents  his  natural  desire; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire, 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  skv, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company."" 

Against  Pope's  poetic  misrepresentation  of  the  aboriginal 

^nature,  and  the  no  less  poetic  misrepresentation  of  Feni- 

more  Cooper,  the  genius  of  Dickens  has  entered  its  protest 

— a  protest  which  needs  no  justification  in  our-eyes,  which, 

for  the  last  two  hundred  years,  have  seen  enough  of  the 

noble  savage.   The  noble  savage,  qviotha!    The  only  writer 

who  has  expressed  the  average  American  opinion  in  regard 

to  this  brutal  myth  is  a  Western  poet,  who  has  summed  the 

inatter  up  in  a  nutshell,  i.  e., — 

"The  only  good  Injun's 
Them  that's  dead." 


PREFACE.  § 

To  trace  the  connection  between  humor  and  wit,  of  which 
we  have  several  specimens  in  the  present  volume,  would  be- 
an interesting  study,  if  I  had  the  space  to  pursue  it;  but  as. 
I  have  not,  I  must  content  myself  by  saying  that  the  hu- 
mor of  a  people  precedes  its  wit  (when  it  has  any),  being^ 
the  first,  as  it  is  frequently  the  last,  growth  of  its  genius. 
We  have  humor  in  abundance, — even  our  English  cousins 
allow  that;  but  of  wit  in  its  highest  sense,  we  have  little  oj 
none.  We  have  the  wildest  humor,  we  have  the  most  up- 
roarious fun,  we  have  nonsense,  so  alive,  that  it  might 
create  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death;  but  we  have  no  wity 
no  sarcasm,  no  satire,  that  is  worthy  of  the  name.  We  have- 
our  Dickenses;  but  we  have  no  Thackeray.  Our  best,  in- 
deed our  only  satirist,  is  Mr.  George  William  Curtis,  whose- 
"  Potiphar  Papers  "  are  all  that  we  have  to  show  in  this  de« 
lightful  walk  of  letters  Twenty  years  have  passed  since 
they  first  saw  the  light;  but  they  are  as  fresh  and  as  life- 
like as  if  they  were  written  yesterday.  Nothing  that  they 
satirized  has  passed  away,  albeit  a  new  regime,  so  to  speak,, 
has  gained  a  foothold  among  us, — the  regime  of  Shoddp 
and  Petroleum.  Mr.  Curtis's  satire  is  sharper  than  one 
might  at  first  think.  It  is  not  bitter,  or  savage,  as  wh}- 
should  it  be,  considering  the  smallness  of  the  game  it  pur- 
sues (we  do  not  break  butterflies  on  the  wheel) ;  but  it  is 
sly  and  laughable,  and  as  just  as  if  it  were  ten  times  as  grave 
as  it  is.  The  state  of  society  which  awakened  it,  only  ob« 
tains,  perhaps,  in  a  new  country.  Let  us  hope  so,  at  all- 
events  ;  for  it  is  not  pleasant  to  have  to  confess  that  we  are 
as  great  snobs  as  our  friends  over  the  water,  and  that  we 
have  yet  to  learn  the  difference  between  genuine  manhood 
and  bojus  /erinement. 

As  a  set-off  to  all  this,    to  Mrs.  Potiphar,   and   young 
Gauche  Boosy,  and  the  R  ev.  Cream  Cheese,  alter  ego  o£ 
the  heavenly-minded  Charles  Honeyman,  let  us  turn  to  aru 
J* 


6  PREFACE. 

other  page  of  the  history  of  the  Island  of  Manahatta, — an 
earlier  and  homelier  page,  written  by  that  most  veracious 
of  all  chroniclers,  good  old  Diederich  Knickerbocker.  It  is 
refreshing,  is  it  not?  to  notice  the  difference  between  the 
hearty  ways  of  that  sturdy  old  Dutch  race  and  the  thin  so- 
cial veneering  of  their  degenerate  descendants. 

"  Hail,  ancient  mariners,  sure  defence. 
Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws." 

But  we  must  be  just,  even  when  the  follies  of  society  are 
in  question,  or  we  shall  not  enjoy,  as  we  should,  Mrs.  Sarah 
Battle's  opinions  on  cards  and  whist, — opinions  which  that 
dear  old  lady  has  promulgated  any  time  within  the  last  fifty 
years,  and  to  which  her  happy  shade  is  indissolublv  wedded. 

If  we  are  readers  of  newspapers, — as  who  is  not  now-a- 
days.-* — Hood's  "Parish  Revolution"  will  recall  many  a 
tempest  in  a.  teapot,  by  which  we  are  excited  over  our  morn- 
ing rolls.  It  may  be  the  last  French  i-evolution,  of  which 
it  is  a  memory;  or  it  may  be  the  next  French  Revolution 
of  which  it  is  a  prophecy, — we  have  it  here,  with  all  its 
humorsome  terrors,  an  imperishable  leaf  of  the  perishable 
day,  the  immortality  of  noisy  nothings.  Truly  revolution- 
ary  man  knows  not  what  he  wants,  and  will  never  be  con . 
tent  until  he  has  it. 

These  and  other  papers  here  collected,  I  commend  to  tne 
lovers  of  light  reading.  They  may  remember  some  of  them, 
but  most,  I  fancy,  Avill  be  new,  or  as  good  as  new,  to  them : 
for  no  matter  how  many  times  a  thing  has  been  read,  pro- 
vided it  is  really  forgotten,  the  last  reading  is  as  good  as 
the  first,  and  in  that  sense,  at  least,  it  is  certainly  Treasure 
Trove.  R.  H.  STODDARD, 

Note. — Acknowledgements  are  especially  due  to  G.  \V.  Curtis,  Esq, 
Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  and  the  heirs  of  Washing-ton  Irving  for 
courtesies  extended  in  the  organization  of  this  volume. 


CONTENTS 


Preface         .        

The  Noble  Savage  .         .  Charles  Dickens. 

New  Livery  and  Other  Things,     George  W.  Curtis 
Mrs  Battle's  Opinion  on  Cards,    Charles  Lamb 
The  Parish  Revolution     .       .       Thojnas  Hood 
A  Day  in  the  Academy         .  F.  C.Burnand 

Mrs,  Brown  at  the  Play  .       Arthur  Sketchley  . 

The  Will  of  a  Virtuoso  .  .  Joseph  Addison  . 
The  Golden  Age  of  New  York  Washington  Irving  \d^^ 
The  Insanity  OF  Cain  .  .  Mary  Mapes Dodge  vd-z^ 
Encounter  with  an  Interviewer  Mark  Tvjain     .       [  77 


PAGE. 
3 

9 

.    21 

63 
76 

93 
107 

145 


The  Painter's  Bargain 
The  Lady  Rohesia 


W.  M.  Thackeray     iS; 
R.  H.  Bar  ham     •     21c 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE. 

BY   CHARLES   DICKENS. 

|0  come  to  the  point  at  once,  I  beg  to  say 
that  I  have  not  the  least  belief  in  the  no- 
ble savage.  I  consider  him  a  prodigious 
nuisance,  and  an  enormous  superstition.  His  call- 
ing rum  fire-water,  and  me  a  pale-face,  wholly  fail 
to  reconcile  me  to  him.  I  don't  care  what  he 
calls  me.  I  call  him  a  savage  ;  and  I  call  a  savage 
a  something  highly  desirable  to  be  civilized  off 
the  face  of  the  earth.  I  think  a  mere  gent  (which 
I  take  to  be  the  lowest  form  of  civilization)  bet- 
ter than  a  howling,  whistling,  clucking,  stamping, 
jumping,  tearing  savage.  It  is  all  one  to  me, 
whether  he  sticks  a  fish-bone  through  his  visage^ 
)r  bits  of  trees  through  the  lobes  of  his  ears,  or 
oirds'  feathers  in  his  head,  whether  he  flattens 
his  hair  between   two  boards,  or  spreads  his  nose 

9 


I  o  TREASURR-TRO  V£. 

over  the  breadth  of  his  face,  or  drags  his  lower  lip 
down  by  great  weights,  or  blackens  his  teeth,  or 
knocks  them  out,  or  paints  one  cheek  red,  and  the 
other  blue,  or  tattooes  himself,  or  oils  himself,  or  rubs 
his  body  with  fat,  or  crimps  it  with  knives.  Yield- 
ing to  whichsoever  of  these  agreeable  eccentricities, 
he  is  a  savage,  cruel,  false,  thievish,  murderous  ; 
addicted  more  or  less  to  grease,  entrails,  and  beastly 
customs ;  a  wild  animal  with  the  questionable  gift 
of  boasting ;  a  conceited,  tiresome,  bloodthirsty, 
rronotonous  humbug. 

Yet  it  is  extraordinary  to  observe  how  some 
people  will  talk  about  him  as  they  talk  about  the 
good  old  times ;  how  they  will  regret  his  disappear- 
ance, in  the  course  of  this  world's  development, 
from  such  and  such  lands,  where  his  absence  is  a 
blessed  relief,  and  an  indispensable  preparation  for 
the  sowing  of  the  very  first  seeds  of  any  influence 
that  can  exalt  humanity;  how,  even  with  the  evi- 
dence of  himself  before  them,  they  will  either  be 
determined  to  believe,  or  will  suffer  themselves  to 
be  persuaded  into  believing,  that  he  is  something 
which  their  five  senses  tell  them  he  is  not 

There  was  Mr.  Catlin,  some  few  years  ago,  with 
his  Ojibbeway  Indians.     Mr.    Catlin   was  an  ener- 


THE   NOBLE  SAVAGE.  If 

getic,  earnest  man,  who  had  lived  among  more  tribes 
of  Indians  than  I  need  reckon  up  here,  and  who 
had  written  a  picturesque  and  glowing  book  about 
them.  With  his  party  of  Indians  squatting  and 
spitting  on  the  table  before  him,  or  dancing  their 
miserable  jigs  after  their  own  dreary  manner,  he 
called,  in  all  good  faith,  upon  his  civilized  audience 
to  take  notice  of  their  symmetry  and  grace,  their 
perfect  limbs,  and  the  exquisite  expression  of  their 
pantomime  :  and  his  civilized  audience,  in  all  good 
faith,  complied  and  admired.  Whereas,  as  mere 
animals,  they  were  wretched  creatures,  very  low  in 
the  scale,  and  very  poorly  formed  ;  and,  as  men 
and  women  possessing  any  power  of  truthful  dra- 
matic expression  by  means  of  action,  they  were  no 
better  than  the  chorus  at  an  Italian  opera  in  Eng- 
land, and  would  have  been  worse  if  such  a  thing 
were  possible. 

Mine  are  no  new  views  of  the  noble  savage.  The 
greatest  writers  on  natural  history  found  him  out 
long  ago.  Buffon  knew  what  he  was,  and  showed 
him  why  he  is  the  sulky  tyrant  that  he  is  to  his 
women,  and  how  it  happens  (Heaven  be  praised  I) 
that  his  race  is  spare  in  numbers.  For  evidence  of 
the  quality  of  his  moral  nature,  pass   himself  tor  a 


IS  TREASURE-TROVE, 

moment,  and  refer  to  his  "faithful  dog."  Has  b<5 
ever  improved  a  dog,  or  attached  a  dog,  since  his 
nobility  first  ran  wild  in  woods,  and  was  brought 
down  (at  a  very  long  shot)  by  Pope  ?  Or  does  the 
animal  that  is  the  friend  of  man  always  degenerate 
in  his  low  society  ? 

It  is  not  the  miserable  nature  of  the  noble  savage 
that  is  the  new  thing :  it  is  the  whimpering  over 
him  with  maudlin  admiration,  and  the  affecting  to 
regret  him,  and  the  drawing  of  any  comparison 
of  advantage  between  the  blemishes  of  civilization 
and  the  tenor  of  his  swinish  life.  There  may  have 
been  a  change  now  and  then  in  those  diseased 
absurdities ;  but  there  is  none  in  him. 

Think  of  the  Bushmen.  Think  of  the  two  men 
and  the  two  women  who  have  been  exhibited  about 
England  for  some  years.  Are  the  majority  of  per- 
sons—  who  remember  the  horrid  little  leader  of  that 
party  in  his  festering  bundle  of  hides,  with  his  tilth, 
and  his  antipathy  to  water,  and  his  straddled  legs, 
and  his  odious  eyes  shaded  by  his  brutal  hand,  and 
his  cry  of  "  Qu-u-u-u-aaa ! "  (Bosjesman  for  some- 
thing desperately  insulting,  I  have  no  doubt)  —  con- 
scious of  an  affectionate  yearning  towards  that  noble 
savage?  or  is  it  idiosyncratic  in  me  to  abhor,  detest. 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE.  \% 

abominate,  and  abjure  him  ?  I  have  no  reserve  op 
this  subject,  and  will  frankly  state,  that,  setting 
aside  that  stage  of  the  entertainment  when  he  coun- 
terfeited the  death  of  some  creature  he  had  shot,  by 
laying  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  shaking  his  left  leg 
(at  which  time  I  think  it  would  have  been  justifia- 
ble homicide  to  slay  him),  I  have  never  seen  that 
group  sleeping,  smoking,  and  expectorating  round 
their  brazier,  but  I  have  sincerely  desired  that  some- 
thing might  happen  to  the  charcoal  smouldering 
therein,  which  would  cause  the  immediate  suffoca- 
tion of  the  whole  of  the  noble  strangers. 

There  is  at  present  a  party  of  Zulu  Caffres  ex- 
hibiting at  St.  George's  Gallery,  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
London.  These  noble  savages  are  represented  in  a 
raost  agreeable  manner :  they  are  seen  in  an  elegant 
^eatre  fitted  with  appropriate  scenery  of  great 
>eaut}^ ;  and  they  are  described  in  a  very  sensible 
ind  unpretending  lecture,  delivered  with  a  modesty 
which  is  quite  a  pattern  to  all  similar  exponents. 
Though  extremely  ugly,  they  are  much  better  shaped 
than  such  of  their  predecessors  as  I  have  referred 
to ;  and  they  are  rather  picturesque  to  the  eye, 
though  far  from  odoriferous  to  the  nose.  What  a 
risitor  left  to  his  own  interpretings  and  imaginings 


1 4  TRE  A  S  URE-  TRO  VR. 

might  suppose  these  noblemen  to  be  about,  when 
they  gave  vent  to  that  pantomimic  expression  which 
is  quite  settled  to  be  the  natural  gift  of  the  noble 
savage,  I  cannot  possibly  conceive  ;  for  it  is  so  much 
too  luminous  for  my  personal  civilization,  that  it 
conveys  no  idea  to  my  mind,  beyond  a  general 
stamping,  ramping,  and  raving,  remarkable  (as 
every  thing  in  savage  life  is)  for  its  dire  uniformity. 
But  let  us,  with  the  interpreter's  assistance,  of  which 
I  for  one  stand  so  much  in  need,  see  what  the 
noble  savage  does  in  Zulu  Caffre  land. 

The  noble  savage  sets  a  king  to  reign  over  him, 
to  whom  he  submits  his  life  and  limbs  without  a 
murmur  or  question,  and  whose  whole  life  is  passed 
chin-deep  in  a  lake  of  blood,  but  who,  after  killing 
incessantly,  is  in  his  turn  killed  by  his  relations  and 
friends,  the  moment  a  gray  hair  appears  on  his  head 
yVll  the  noble  savage's  wars  with  his  fellow-savages 
(and  he  takes  no  pleasure  in  any  thing  else)  are  wars 
of  extermination  ;  which  f*  t%ie  ^st  thing  I  know 
of  him,  and  the  mosc  comfortable  to  my  mind  when 
1  look  at  him.  He  has  no  moral  feelings  oi  any 
kind,  sort,  or  description  ;  and  his  "  mission  "  may 
be  summed  up  as  simply  diabolical. 

The  ceremonies  with  which  he  faintly  diversifies 


THE   NOB  IE  SAVAGE.  15 

his  life,  are,  of  course,  of  a  kindred  nature.  If  he 
wants  a  wife,  he  appears  before  the  kennel  of  the 
gentleman  whom  he  has  selected  for  his  father-in- 
law,  attended  by  a  party  of  male  friends  of  a  very 
strong  flavor,  who  screech  and  whistle  and  stamp  an 
offer  of  so  many  cows  for  the  young  lady's  hand. 
The  chosen  father-in-law  —  also  supported  by  a  high- 
flavored  party  of  male  friends  —  screeches,  whistles, 
and  yells  (being  seated  on  the  ground,  he  can't 
stamp)  that  there  never  was  such  a  daughter  in  the 
market  as  his  daughter,  and  that  he  must  have  six 
more  cows.  The  son-in-law  and  his  select  cin^le  of 
backers,  screech,  whistle,  stamp,  and  yell  in  reply, 
that  they  will  give  three  more  cows.  The  father-in- 
law  (an  old  deluder,  overpaid  at  the  beginning) 
accepts  four,  and  rises  to  bind  the  bargain.  The 
whole  party,  the  young  lady  included,  then  falling 
into  epileptic  convulsions,  and  screeching,  whistling, 
stamping,  and  yelling  together,  and  nobody  taking 
any  notice  of  the  young  lady  (whose  charms  are  not 
to  be  thought  of  without  a  shudder),  the  noble 
savage  is  considered  married  ;  and  his  friends  make 
demoniacal  leaps  at  him  by  way  of  congratula 
tion. 

When  the  noble  savage  finds  himself  a  little  un- 


1 6  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

weil.  and  mentions  the  circumstance  to  his  friends, 
it  is  immediately  perceived  that  he  is  under  the 
influence  of  witchcraft.  A  learned  personage, 
called  an  Imyanger  or  witch  doctor,  is  immediately 
sent  for  to  nooker  the  Umtargartie,  or  smell  out 
the  witch.  The  male  inhabitants  of  the  kraal  be- 
ing seated  on  the  ground,  the  learned  doctor,  got 
up  like  a  grizzly  bear,  appears,  and  admi/iisters  a 
dance  of  a  most  terrific  nature,  during  the  exhibi- 
tion of  which  remedy  he  incessantly  gnashes  his 
teeth,  and  howls,  "  I  am  the  original  physician 
to  nooker  the  Umtargartie.  Yow  yow  vow  1  No 
connection  with  any  other  establishment.  Till 
till  till !  All  other  Umtargarties  are  feigned  Um- 
targarties,  Boroo  Boroo  !  but  I  perceive  here  a  genu- 
ine and  real  Umtargartie,  Hoosh  Hoosh  Hoosh ! 
in  whose  blood  I,  the  original  Imyanger  and 
Nookerer,  Blizzerum  Boo !  will  wash  these  bear's 
claws  of  mine.  O  yow  yow  yow ! "  All  this  time 
the  learned  physician  is  looking  out  among  the 
attentive  faces  for  some  unfortunate  man  who  owes 
him  a  cow,  or  who  has  given  him  any  small  offence, 
or  against  whom,  without  offence,  he  has  conceived 
a  spite.  Him  he  never  fails  to  nooker  as  the  Um- 
targartie, and  he  is  instantly  killed.     In  the  absence 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE.  1 7 

of  such  an  Individual,  the  usual  practice  is  to  nooker 
the  quietest  and  most  gentlemanly  person  In  com- 
pany. But  the  nookering  is  invariably  followed 
on  the  spot  by  the  butchering. 

Some  of  the  noble  savages  In  whom  Mr.  Catlln 
was  so  strongly  interested,  and  the  diminution  of 
whose  numbers,  by  rum  and  small-pox,  greatly 
affected  him,  had  a  custom  not  unlike  this,  though 
much  more  appalling  and  disgusting  in  its  odious 
details. 

The  women  being  at  work  In  the  fields,  hoeing 
the  Indian  corn,  and  the  noble  savage  being  asleep 
in  the  shade,  the  chief  has  sometimes  the  conde» 
scension  to  come  forth,  and  lighten  the  labor  by 
looking  at  it.  On  these  occasions,  he  seats  himself 
in  his  own  savage  chair,  and  is  attended  by  his 
shield-bearer,  who  hold  over  his  head  a  shield  of 
cowhide — in  shape  like  an  immense  mussel-shell — 
fearfully  and  wonderfully,  after  the  manner  of  a 
theatrical  supernumerary.  But,  lest  the  great  man 
should  forget  his  greatness  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  humble  works  of  agriculture,  there  suddenly 
rushes  in  a  poet,  retained  for  the  purpose,  called  a 
praiser.  This  literary  gentlemen  wears  a  leopard's 
head  ov^r  his  own,  and  a  dress  of  tigers'  tails;  he 
has  the  appearance  of  having  come  express  on  his 


1 S  THE  AS  URE-  TRO  VE. 

hind-legs  from  the  Zoological  Gardens;  and  he  in- 
continently strikes  up  the  chief's  praises,  plungin^r 
and  tearing  all  the  while.  There  is  a  frantic 
wickedness  in  this  brute's  manner  of  worrying  the 
air,  and  gnashing  out,  "  Oh,  what  a  delightful 
chief  he  is!  Oh,  what  a  delicious  quantity  of  blood 
he  sheds!  Oh,  how  majestically  he  laps  it  up! 
(3h,  how  charmingly  cruel  he  is!  Oh,  how  he  tears 
the  fiesh  of  his  enemies,  and  crunches  the  bones! 
Oh,  how  like  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  and  the  wolf 
and  the  bear  he  is!  Oh,  row,  row,  row  row,  how 
fond  I  am  of  him !  " — which  might  tempt  the  So- 
ciety of  Friends  to  charge  at  a  hand -gallop  Into 
tne  Swartz-Kop  location,  and  exterminate  the 
whole  kraal. 

When  war  is  afoot  among  the  noble  savages, — 
\vhich  Is  always, — the  chief  holds  a  council  to  ascer- 
tain whether  It  is  the  opinion  of  his  brothers  and 
friends  in  general  that  the  enemy  shall  be  extermi- 
nated. On  this  occasion,  after  the  performance  of  an 
Umsebeuza,  or  war-song,  which  is  exactly  like  all 
the  other  songs,  the  chief  makes  a  speech  to  his 
brothers  and  friends  arranged  in  single  file.  No 
particular  order  is  observed  during  the  delivery  of 
this  address;  but  every  gentleman  who  finds  him- 
self   excited   by   the   subject,   instead   of    crying;^ 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE.  1 9 

'*Hear,  hear!"  as  is  the  custom  with  us,  darts  from 
the  rank,  and  tramples  out  the  hfe,  or  cruslies  the 
skull,  or  mashes  the  face,  or  scoops  out  the  eyes,  or 
breaks  the  limbs,  or  performs  a  whirlv/ind  of  atro- 
cities on  the  body,  of  an  imaginary  enemy.  Several 
gentlemen  becoming  thus  excited  at  once,  and 
pounding  away  without  the  least  regard  to  the 
orator,  that  illustrious  person  is  rather  in  the  posi- 
tion of  an  orator  in  an  Irish  House  of  Commons 
But  several  of  these  scenes  of  savage  life  bear  a 
strong  generic  resemblance  to  an  Irish  election,  and 
I  think  would  be  extremely  well  received  and  un- 
derstood at  Cork. 

In  all  these  ceremonies,  the  noble  savage  holds 
forth  to  the  utmost  possible  extent  about  himself; 
from  which  (to  turn  him  to  some  civilized  account) 
we  may  learn,  I  think,  that  as  egotism  is  one  of  the 
most  offensive  and  contemptible  littlenesses  a  civil- 
ized man  can  exhibit,  so  it  is  really  incompatible 
with  the  interchange  of  ideas;  inasmuch  as,  if  we 
all  talked  about  ourselves,  we  should  soon  have  no 
listeners,  and  must  be  all  yelling  and  screeching  at 
once  on  our  own  separate  accounts,  making  society 
hideous.  It  is  my  opinion  that,  if  we  retained  in  us 
anything  of  the  noble  savage,  we  could  not  get  rid 
of  it  too  soon.  But  the  fact  is  clearly  otherwise. 
LToon   the  wife   and  dowry  question,  substitutinj;' 


20  TREAS  URE.  TRO  \ ^E. 

coin  for  cows,  we  have  assuredly  nothing  of  the 
Zuhi  Caffre  left.  The  endurance  of  despotism  is 
one  great  distinguishing  mark  of  the  savage  always. 
The  improving  world  has  quite  got  the  better  of 
that  too.  In  like  manner,  Paris  is  a  civilized  city, 
and  the  Theatre  Francais  a  highly  civilized  theatre; 
and  we  shall  never  hear,  and  never  have  heard  in 
these  later  days  (of  course),  of  the  praiser  there. 
No,  no,  civilized  poets  have  better  work  to  do.  As 
to  nookering  Umtargarties,  there  are  no  pretended 
Umtargarties  in  Europe,  and  no  European  powers 
to  nooker  them ;  that  would  be  mere  spydom,  sub- 
ornation, small  malice,  superstition,  and  false  pre- 
tence. And,  as  to  private  Umtargarties,  are  we 
not  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-three, 
with  spirits  rapping  at  our  doors? 

To  conclude  as  I  began.  M}-  position  is,  that,  if 
we  have  any  thing  to  learn  from  the  noble  savage, 
it  is  what  to  avoid.  His  virtues  are  a  fable;  his 
happiness  is  a  delusion;  his  nobility  nonsense.  We 
have  no  greater  justification  for  being  cruel  to  the 
miserable  object  than  for  being  cruel  to  a  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare,  or  an  Isaac  Newtox;  but 
he  passes  away  before  an  immeasurably  better  and 
higher  power  than  ever  ran  wild  in  any  earthly 
woods,  and  the  world  will  be  all  the  better  when 
bis  place  knows  him  no  more. 


OUR  NEW  LIVERY,  AND  OTHER 
THINGS. 

A  Letter  from  Mrs.  Potiphar  to  Miss  Caroline  Pettitoes^ 

BY    GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS. 

New  York,  April. 

V  DEAR  Caroline,  —  Lent  came  so  fright- 
fully early  this  year,  that  I  was  very  much 
afraid  my  new  bonnet,  h  Flmperatrice^ 
would  not  be  out  from  Paris  soon  enough,  .  But, 
fortunately,  it  arrived  just  in  time ;  and  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  taking  down  the  pride  of  Mrs.  Croesus, 
who  fancied  hers  would  be  the  only  stylish  hat  in 
church  the  first  Sunday.  She  could  not  keep  her 
eyes  away  from  me ;  and  I  sat  so  unmoved,  and  so 
calmly  looking  at  the  doctor,  that  she  was  quite 
vexed.  But,  whenever  she  turned  away,  I  ran  my 
e^/es  over  the  whole  congregation,  and  would  you 
believe,  that,  almost  without  an   exception,    people 


22  TREASURE^TROVE. 

had  th^ir  old  things  ?  However,  I  suppose  they  for- 
got how  soon  Lent  was  coming.  As  I  was  passing 
out  of  church,  Mrs.  Croesus  brushed  by  me. 

"Ah!"  said  she,  "good-morning.  Why,  bless 
me ;  you've  got  that  pretty  hat  I  saw  at  Lawson's. 
Well,  now,  it's  really  quite  pretty :  Lawson  has  some 
^aste  left  yet.  What  a  lovely  sermon  the  doctor 
gave  us  !  By  the  by,  did  you  know  that  Mrs.  Gnu 
has  actually  bought  the  blue  velvet  ?  It's  too  bad  ; 
because  1  wanted  to  cover  mv prayer-book  with  blue. 
and  she  sits  so  near,  the  effect  of  my  book  will  be 
quite  spoiled.  Dear  me !  there  she  is  beckoning  to 
me.  Good-by:  do  come  and  see  us.  Tuesdavs, 
you  know.     Well,  Lawson  really  does  very  well." 

I  was  so  mad  with  the  old  thing,  that  1  could  noi 
help  catching  her  by  her  mantle,  and  holding  on, 
while  I  whispered,  loud  enough  for  everybody  to 
hear,  — 

"  Mrs.  Croesus,  you  see  I  have  just  got  my  bonnet 
from  Paris.  It's  made  after  the  empress's.  If  you 
would  like  to  have  yours  made  over  in  the  iasnion, 
dear  Mrs.  Croesus,  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  lend  you 
mine  I  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear  1 "  said  she.  "  Lawson  won't 
do  for  me.     By-by." 


NEW  LIVER 2',  AND  OTHER  THINGS.       33 

And  so  she  slipped  out,  and,  I've  no  doubt,  told 
Mrs.  Gnu  that  she  had  seen  my  bonnet  at  Law- 
son''s.  Isn't  it  too  bad  ?  Then  she  is  so  abominably 
cool!  Somehow,  when  I'm  talking  with  Mrs. 
Croesus,  who  has  all  her  own  things  made  at  home, 
I  don't  feel  as  if  mine  came  from  Paris  at  all.  She 
has  such  a  way  of  looking  at  you,  that  it's  quite 
dreadful.  She  seems  to  be  saying  in  her  mind, 
"  La,  now,  well  done,  little  dear."  And  I  think 
that  kind  of  mental  reservation  (I  think  that's 
what  they  call  it)  is  an  insupportable  impertinence. 
However,  I  don't  care,  do  you? 

I've  so  many  things  to  tell  3'OU,  that  I  hardly 
know  ^vhere  to  begin.  The  great  thing  is  the  livery  ; 
but  I  want  to  come  regularly  up  to  that,  and  forget 
nothing  by  the  wa}^  I  was  uncertain  for  a  long 
time  how  to  have  my  prayer-book  bound.  Finally , 
after  thinking  about  it  a  great  deal,  I  concluded  to 
have  it  done  in  pale  blue  velvet,  with  gold  clasps, 
and  a  gold  cross  upon  the  side.  To  be  sure,  it's 
nothing  very  new.  But  what  is  new  now-a-days? 
Sally  Shrimp  has  had  hers  done  hi  emerald;  and  I 
know  Mrs.  Croesus  will  have  crimson  for  hers;  and 
those  people  who  sit  next  us  in  church  (I  wonder 
who  they  are:  it's  very  unpleasant  to  sit  next  to  peo- 


24  TPEAS  URE-  TRO  VE. 

pie  you  don't  know;  and,  positively,  that  girl,  the 
dark-haired  one  with  large  eyes,  carries  the  same 
muff  she  did  last  year;  it's  big  enough  tor  a  family) 
have  a  kind  of  brown  morocco  binding.  I  must 
tell  you  one  reason  why  I  fixed  upon  the  pale  blue. 
Kou  know  that  aristocratic-looking  young  man,  in 
white  cravat  and  black  pantaloons  and  waistcoat, 
whom  we  saw  at  Saratoga  a  year  ago,  and  who  al- 
ways had  such  a  beautiful  sanctimonious  look,  and 
such  small  white  hands.  Well,  he  is  a  minister,  as 
we  supposed, — "  an  unworthy  candidate,  an  un- 
profitable husbandman,"  as  he  calls  himself  in  that 
delicious  voice  of  his.  He  has  been  quite  taken  up 
among  us.  He  has  been  asked  a  good  deal  to  din- 
ner, and  there  was  hope  of  his  being  settled  as 
colleague  to  the  doctor,  only  Mr.  Potiphar  (who 
can  be  stubborn,  you  know)  insisted  that  the  Rev. 
Cream  Cheese,  though  a  very  good  young  man, 
he  didn't  doubt,  was  addicted  to  candlesticks.  I 
suppose  that's  something  awful.  But  could  you 
believe  any  thing  awful  of  him?  I  asked  Mn 
Potiphar  what  he  meant  by  saying  such  things. 

"I  mean,"  said  he,  "that  he's  a  Puseyite;  and 
I've  no  idea  of  being  tied  to  the  apron-«itrings  of 
the  Scarlet  Woman," 


NEW  LIVERY  AX D  OTHER  TlliXi.S.       25 

Dear  Caroline,  who  is  the  Scarlet  Woman  ? 
Dearest,  tell  me,  upon  your  honor,  if  you  have 
ever  heard  any  scandal  of   Mr.  Potiphar. 

"  What  is  it  about  candlesticks? "  said  I  to  Mr, 
Potiphar.  "  Perhaps  IMr.  Cheese  finds  gas  too 
bright  for  his  eyes;  and  that's  his  misfortune,  not 
his  fault. 

"Polly,"  said  Mr.  Potiphar,  who  %vill  call  me 
Polly,  although  It  sounds  so  very  vulgar,  "  please 
not  to  meddle  w^ith  things  you  don't  understand. 
You  may  have  Cream  Cheese  to  dinner  as  much 
as  you  choose;  but  I  will  not  have  him  in  the  pul- 
pit of  my  church." 

The  same  day,  Mr.  Cheese  happened  in  about 
lunch-time,  and  I  asked  him  if  his  eyes  were  really 
weak. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he.     "  Why  do  you  ask?" 

Then  I  told  him  that  I  had  heard  he  was  so 
fond  of  candlesticks. 

Ah,  Caroline!  you  should  have  seen  him  then. 
He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  pouring  out  a  glass  of 
Mr.  P.'s  best  old  port;  and  holding  the  decanter 
in  one  hand,  and  the  glass  in  the  other,  he  looked  so 
beautifully  sad,  and  said  in  that  sweet,  low  voice, — 

"Dear  Mrs.  Potiphar,  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  is 


2  6  TREAS  URE-  TR  O  VE. 

the  seed  of  the  Church."  Then  he  filled  up  \is 
glass,  and  drank  the  wine  off  with  such  a  mourn- 
ful, resigned  air,  and  wiped  his  lips  so  gently  with 
his  cambric  handkerchief  (I  saw  that  it  was  a  hem- 
stitch), that  I  had  no  voice  to  ask  him  to  take  a  bit 
of  the  cold  chicken;  which  he  did,  however,  with- 
out my  asking  him.  But  when  he  said  in  the 
same  low  voice,  "A  little  more  breast,  dear  Mrs. 
Potiphar,"  I  was  obliged  to  run  into  the  drawing- 
room  for  a  moment  to  recover  myself. 

Well,  after  he  had  lunched,  I  told  him  that  I 
wished  to  take  his  advice  upon  something  connected 
with  the  church  (for  a  prayer-book  is^  you  know.^ 
dear;)  and  he  looked  so  sweetly  at  me, that  (would 
you  believe  it  ?)  I  almost  wished  to  be  a  Catholic,  and 
to  confess  three  or  four  times  a  week,  and  to  have 
him  for  my  confessor.  But  it's  very  wicked  to  wish 
to  be  a  Catholic,  and  it  wasn't  real  much,  you  know ; 
but,  somehow,  I  thought  so.  When  I  asked  him  in 
what  velvet  he  would  advise  me  to  have  my  2:)rayer- 
book  bound,  he  talked  beautifully  for  about  twenty 
minutes.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  him.  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  understood  much  of  what  he  said. 
How  should  I?  But  it  was  very  beautiful.  Don't 
laugh,  Carrie.  But  there  was  one  thing  I  did  under- 


NEW  LIVER  1\  AND  OTHER  THINGS.      27 

land,  and  which,  as  it  came  pretty  often,  quite 
hehDcd  me  through.  It  was,  "  Dear  Mrs.  Poti- 
phar."  You  can't  tell  how  nicely  he  says  it.  He 
began  by  telling  me  that  it  was  very  important  to 
consider  all  the  details  and  little  things  about  the 
church.  He  said  they  were  all  timbales  or  cym- 
bals, or  something  of  that  kind;  and  then  he  talked 
very  prettily  about  the  stole,  and  the  violet  and 
scarlet  capes  of  the  cardinals,  and  purple  chasu- 
bles, and  the  lace  edge  of  the  pope's  little  short- 
gown;  and, — do  you  know  it  was  very  funny? — 
but  it  seemed  to  me,  somehow,  as  if  I  was  talking 
with  Portier  or  Florine  Lefevre,  except  that  he 
used  such  beautiful  words.  Well,  by  and  by,  he 
said, — 

"  Therefore,  dear  Mrs.  Potiphar,  as  your  faith  is 
so  pure  and  childlike,  and  as  I  observe  that  the 
light  from  the  yellow  panes  usually  falls  across 
your  pew,  I  would  advise  that  you  cymbalize  your 
faith  (wouldn't  that  be  noisy  in  church?)  by  bind- 
mg  your  prayer-book  in  pale  blue,  the  color  of 
skim-milk,  dear  Mrs.  Potiphar,  wdiich  is  so  full  of 
pastoral  associations." 

Why  did  he  emphasize  the  word  "pastoral"? 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  like  Cream  Cheese,  dear 
Caroline,  when  he  is  so  gentle  and  religious? — and 


28  TREASURE  TROVE. 

such  a  pretty  religion  too!  For  he  is  not  only 
well-dressed,  and  has  such  aristocratic  hands  and 
feet  in  the  parlor;  but  he  is  so  perfectly  gentle- 
manly in  the  pulpit.  He  never  raises  his  voice  too 
loud,  and  he  has  such  wavy  gestures.  ]Mr.  Poti- 
phar  says  that  may  be  all  very  true;  but  he  knows 
perfectly  well  that  he  has  a  hankering  for  artificial 
flowers,  and  that,  for  his  part,  he  prefers  the  doctor 
to  any  preacher  he  ever  heard ;  "  because,"  he  says, 
"  I  can  go  quietly  to  sleep,  confident  that  he  will 
say  nothing  that  might  not  be  preached  from  every 
well  regulated  pulpit;  whereas,  if  we  should  let 
Cream  into  the  desk,  I  should  have  to  keep  awake 
to  be  on  the  lookout  for  some  of  these  new-fangled 
idolatries;  and  Polly  Potiphar,  I  for  one,  am  de- 
termined to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Scarlet 
Woman." 

Darling  Caroline — I  don't  care  much — but  did 
he  ever  have  any  thing  to  do  with  a  Scarlet 
Woman? 

After  he  said  that  about  artificial  flowers,  I  or- 
dered from  Martelle  the  sweetest  sprig  of  imiJior- 
telle  he  had  in  his  shop,  and  sent  it  anonymously  on 
St.  Valentine's  Day.  Of  course  I  didn't  wish  to  do 
any  thing  secret  from  my  husband,  that  might  make 


NEW  LIVERV  AXD  OrilER  T1IIX(,S.      29 

people  talk;  so  I  wrote,  "Reverend  Crcnm  Cheese; 
from  his  grateful  Skiin-viilkP  I  marked  the  last 
words,  and  hope  he  understood  that  I  meant  to  ex- 
press my  thanks  for  his  advice  about  the  pale-blue 
cover.  You  don't  think  it  was  too  romantic,  do 
you  dear? 

You  can  imagine  how  pleasantly  Lent  Is  passing 
since  I  see  so  much  of  him;  and  then  it  is  so  ap- 
propriate to  Lent  to  be  intimate  with  a  minister'. 
He  goes  with  me  to  church  a  great  deal;  for  Mr. 
Potiphar,  of  course,  has  no  time  for  that,  except  on 
Sundays;  and  it  is  really  delightful  to  see  such 
piety.  He  makes  the  responses  In  the  most  musical 
manner;  and  when  he  kneels,  upon  entering  the 
pew,  he  Is  the  admiration  of  the  whole  church.  He 
buries  his  face  entirely  in  a  cloud  of  cambric  poc- 
ket handkerchief,  with  his  Initial  embroidered  at 
the  corner;  and  his  hair  is  beautifully  parted  down 
behind,  which  is  very  fortunate,  as  otherwise  It 
would  look  so  badly  when  only  half  his  head 
showed.  I  feel  so  good  when  I  sit  by  his  side; 
and  when  the  doctor  (as  Mr.  P.  savs)  "blows  up" 
those  terrible  sinners  in  Babylon  and  the  other 
Bible  towns,  I  always  find  the  Rev.  Cream's  eyes 
fixed  upon  me,  with  so  much  sweet  sadness,  that  I 
am  ver}^,  very  sorry  for  the   nau^^^hty   ])eople  the 


30  TREASURE  TROVE. 

doctor  talks  about.  Why  did  they  do  so,  do  you 
suppose,  dear  CaroHiie?  How  thankful  we  ought 
to  be  that  we  live  now  with  so  many  churches,  and 
such  fine  ones,  and  with  such  gentlemanly  minis- 
ters as  yir.  Cheese!  And  how  nicely  it's  arranged, 
that  after  dancinsf  and  dinino^  for  two  or  three 
months  constantly,  during  which,  of  course,  we 
can  only  go  to  church  Sundays,  there  comes  a  time 
for  stopping,  when  we're  tired  out,  and  for  going 
to  church  every  day,  and  (as  Mr.  P.  says)  "  striking 
a  balance,"  and  thinking  about  being  good,  and  all 
those  things!  We  don't  lose  a  great  deal,  you 
know.  It  makes  a  variety;  and  we  all  see  each 
other  ju5t  the  same,  only  we  don't  dance.  I  do 
think  it  would  be  better  if  we  took  our  lorgnettes 
with  us,  however;  for  it  was  only  last  Wednesday, 
at  nine  o'clock  prayers,  that  I  saw  Sheena  Silke 
across  the  church,  in  their  little  -pew  at  the  corner, 
and  I  am  sure  that  she  had  a  new  bonnet  on;  and 
yet,  though  I  looked  at  it  all  the  time,  trying  to 
find  out,  prayers  were  fairly  over  before  I  dis- 
covered w^hether  It  was  really  new,  or  only  that 
old  white  one  made  over  with  a  few  new  flowers. 
Xow,  if  I  had  had  my  glass,  I  could  have  told  in 
a  moment,  and  shouldn't  have  been  obliged  to  lose 
all  the  prayers. 


NE  \V  LI  VER  1 ;  A  XD  O  TIIER  THINGS.      3 ! 

But,  as  I  was  sayin^^,  tho^c  poor  old  jocoplc  in 
Babylon  and  Nineveh! — only  think,  if  they  had 
had  the  privilege  of  prayers  for  six  or  seven  weeks 
in  Lent,  and  regular  preaching  the  rest  of  the  year, 
except,  of  course,  in  the  summer — (by  the  by,  I 
wonder  if  they  all  had  some  kind  of  Saratoga  or 
Newport  to  go  to.  I  mean  to  ask  ]Mr.  Cheese), 
they  might  Jiave  been  good,  and  all  have  been 
happy.  It's  quite  awful  to  hear  how  eloquent  and 
earnest  the  doctor  is  when  he  preaches  against 
Babylon.  Mr.  P.  says  he  likes  to  have  him  "  pitch 
into  those  old  sinners;  it  does  'em  so  much  good:" 
and  then  he  looks  quite  fierce.  Mr.  Cheese  is 
going  to  read  me  a  sermon  he  has  written  upon  the 
maidenhood  of  Lot's  wife.  He  says  that  he  quotes 
a  great  deal  of  poetry  in  it,  and  that  I  must  dam 
up  the  fount  of  my  tears  when  he  reads  it.  It  was 
an  odd  expression  for  a  minister,  wasn't  it?  and  I 
was  obliged  to  say,  "  Mr.  Cheese,  you  forgot  your- 
self." He  replied,  "Dear  Mrs.  Potiphar,  I  will 
explain;"  and  he  did  so;  so  that  I  admired  him 
more  than  ever. 

Dearest  Caroline,  if  you  should  only  like  him  I 
He  asked  one  day  about  you;  and,  when  I  told  him 
what  a  dear  good  girl  you  are,  he  said,  "And  her 
father  has  worldly  Dossessions.  has  he  not?" 


3  2  TREA  S  URE-  TR  O  VE 

I  answered,  Yes;  that  your  father  \va^  very  rich, 
Then  he  sighed,  and  said  that  he  could  never 
marry  an  heiress,  unless  he  clearlv  saw  it  to  be  his 
duty.     Isn't  it  a  beautiful  resignation? 

I  had  no  idea  of  saying  so  much  about  him; 
but  vou  know  it^s  proper,  when  writing  a  letter  in 
Lent,  to  talk  about  religious  matters.  And  I 
must  confess  there  is  something  comfortable  in 
in  having  to  do  with  such  things.  Don't  you  feel 
better,  when  you've  been  dancing  all  the  week,  and 
dining,  and  going  to  the  opera,  and  flirting,  and 
flving  around,  to  go  to  church  on  Sundays?  I  do. 
It  seems,  somehow,  as  if  we  ought  to  go.  But  I  do 
wish  Mrs.  Croesus  would  sit  somewhere  else  than 
just  in  front  of  us;  for  her  new  bonnets  and  her 
splendid  collars  and  capes  make  me  quite  misera- 
ble. And  then  she  puts  me  out  of  conceit  of  my 
things  by  talking  about  Lawson,  or  somebod\',  as  7 
told  vou  in  the  besrinninof. 

Mr.  Pctiphar  has  sent  out  for  the  new  carpets.  I 
had  only  two  spoiled  at  my  ball,  you  know,  and  that 
was  very  little.  One  always  expects  to  sacrifice  at 
least  two  carpets  u^Don  occasion  of  seeing  one's 
friends.  That  handsome  one  in  the  supper-room 
was  en''^-elv  ruined.     Would   vou  believe  that  Mr. 


NEW  LIVERY.   AND   OTHER    Tf/ZNGS.       33 

P.,  when  he  went  down  stairs  the  next  morni'i^, 
found  our  P'red  and  his  cousin  hoeing  it  with  their 
.'Itle  hoes  ?  It  was  entirely  matted  with  preserves 
di(d  things ;  and  the  boys  said  they  were  scraping  it 
clean  for  breakfast.  The  other  spoiled  carpet  was 
in  the  gentlemen's  dressing-room,  where  the  punch 
bowl  was.  Young  Gauche  Boosey,  a  very  gentle 
manlv  fellow,  you  know,  ran  up  after  polking,  and 
WHS  so  confused  with  the  light  and  heat,  that  he  went 
qiite  unsteadily;  and  as  he  was  trying  to  fill  a  giasi^ 
with  the  silver  ladle  (which  is  rather  heav}'),  hte 
somehow  leaned  too  hard  upon  the  table,  and  down 
went  the  whole  thing,  —  table,  bowl,  punch,  and 
Boosey,  and  ended  my  poor  carpet  I  was  sorry  tor 
that,  and  also  for  the  bowl,  which  was  a  very  hand- 
some one,  imported  from  China  by  my  father's 
pjtrtner,  —  a  wedding-gift  to  me,  —  and  for  the  table, 
a  delicate  rosewood  stand,  which  was  a  work-table 
of  my  sister  Lucy's,  whom  you  never  knew,  and 
who  died  long  and  long  ago.  However,  I  was 
amply  repaid  by  Boosey's  drollery  afterward.  He  is 
a  v*'ry  witty  young  man  ;  and  when  he  got  up  from 
the  f^.oor,  saturated  with  punch  (his  clathes,  I  mean), 
he  looked  down  at  the  carpet,  and  said,  — 

"  Well,  I've  given  that  such  a  punch,  it  will  want 
some  lemon-aid.  to  recover" 


34  TRRA  S  UKE^  TRO  VR. 

I  suppose  he  had  some  idea  about  lemon  acid 
taking  out  spots. 

But  the  best  thing  was  what  he  said  to  me.  He 
is  so  droll,  that  he  insisted  upon  coming  down,  and 
finishing  the  dance  just  as  he  was.  The  funny 
fellow  brushed  against  all  the  dresses  in  his  way, 
and  finally  said  to  me,  as  he  pointed  to  a  lemon - 
seed  upon  his  coat,  — 

"  I  feel  so  very  lemon-choly  for  what  I  have  done.'^ 

I  laughed  very  much  (you  were  in  the  other 
room) ;  but  Mr.  P.  stepped  up,  and  ordered  him  to 
leave  the  house.  Boosey  said  he  would  do  no  such 
thing ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  we  should  have  had  u 
scene,  if  Mr.  P.  had  not  marched  him  straight  to 
the  door,  and  put  him  into  a  carriage,  and  told  the 
driver  where  to  take  him.  Mr.  P.  was  red  enough 
when  he  came  back. 

"  No  man  shall  insult  me  or  my  guests,  by  getting 
drunk  in  my  house,"  said  he ;  and  he  has  since 
asked  me  not  to  invite  Boosey,  nor  "any  of  his 
kind,"  as  he  calls  them,  to  our  house.  However,  I 
think  it  will  pass  over.  I  tell  him  that  all  young 
men  of  spirit  get  a  little  excited  with  wine  some- 
times, and  he  mustn't  be  too  hard  upon  them. 

"  Madame."  said  he  to  me,  the  first  time  I  ven 


iyfEvr  LIVERY,    AND   OTHER    THINGS,       35 

^Jred  to  say  that,  "  no  man  with  genuine  self-respect 
ever  gets  drunk  twice  ;  and,  if  you  had  the  faintest 
idea  of  the  misery  which  a  little  elegant  intoxication 
has  produced  in  scores  of  families  that  you  know, 
you  would  never  insinuate  again  that  a  little  excite- 
ment from  wine  is  an  agreeable  thing.  There's  your 
friend  Mrs.  Croesus  "  (he  thinks  she's  my  friend,  be- 
cause we  call  each  other  "  dear  ")  :  "  she  is  delighted 
to  be  a  fashionable  woman,  and  to  be  described  as 
the  *  peerless  and  accomplished  Mrs.  C-ce-s,'  in 
letters  from  the  watering-places  to  '  The  Herald  ; '  but 
I  tell  you,  if  any  thing  of  the  woman  or  the  mother 
is  left  in  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Croesus,  I  could 
wi  ing  her  heart  as  it  never  was  wrung  —  and  never 
shall  be  by  me  —  by  showing  her  the  places  that 
young  Timon  Crcesus  haunts,  the  people  with  whom 
he  associates,  and  the  drunkenness,  gambling,  and 
worse  dissipations  of  which  he  is  guilty. 

'*  Timon  Croesus  is  eighteen  or  nineteen,  or,  per- 
haps, twenty  years  old  ;  and,  Polly,  I  tell  you,  he  is 
actually  blase,  worn  out  with  dissipation,  the  com- 
panion of  blacklegs,  the  Chevalier  of  Cyprians, 
tipsy  every  night,  and  haggard  every  morning. 
Timon  Croesus  is  the  puny  caricature  of  a  mau 
mentally,    morally,    and    ohysically.     He   gets  'ele 


30  TREASURE-TROVE. 

gantly  intoxictited  *  at  your  parties ;  he  goes  off  to 
"■up  with  Gauche  Boosey.  You  and  Mrs.  CrcEsus 
think  them  young  men  of  spirit ;  it  is  an  exhilarat- 
ing case  of  sowing  wild  oats,  you  fancy :  and 
when,  at  twenty-five,  Timon  Croesus  stands  ruined 
in  the  world,  without  aims  or  capacities,  without 
the  esteem  of  a  single  man,  or  his  own  self-respect, 
—  youth,  health,  hope,  and  energy,  all  gone  for- 
e\'er,  —  then  you  and  your  dear  Mrs.  Croesus  will 
probably  wonder  at  the  horrible  harvest.  Mrs. 
Potiphar,  ask  the  Rev.  Cream  Cheese  to  omit  his 
sermon  upon  the  maidenhood  of  Lot's  wife,  and 
preach  from  this  text,  *  They  that  sow  the  wind  shall 
reap  the  whirlwind.'  Good  heavens  !  Polly,  fancy 
our  Fred  growing  up  to  such  a  life !  I'd  rather  bury 
him  to-morrow ! " 

I  never  saw  Mr.  P.  so  much  excited.  He  fairly 
put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  ;  and  I  really  be- 
lieve he  cried.  But  I  think  he  exaggerates  these 
things  ;  and  as  he  had  a  very  dear  friend  who  went 
worse  and  worse,  until  he  died  frightfully,  a  drunk- 
ard, it  is  not  strange  he  should  speak  so  warmly 
about  it.     But  as  Mrs.  Croesus  says, — 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  You  can't  curb  these  boys  • 
you  don't  want  to  break  their  spirits ;  you  don't 
want  to  make  them  milksops." 


NEiV  LIVERY,    AND   OTHER    THINGS.       57 

When  I  repeated  the  speech  to  Mr.  P.,  he  said  to 
me  with  a  kind  of  solemnity,  — 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Croesus  that  I  am  not  here  to  judge 
nor  dictate ;  but  she  may  be  well  assured,  that  every 
parent  is  responsible  for  every  child  of  his  to  the 
utmost  of  the  influence  he  can  exert,  whether  he 
chooses  to  consider  himself  so  or  not.  And  if  not 
now,  in  this  world,  yet  somewhere  and  somehow,  he 
must  hear  and  heed  the  voice  that  called  to  Cain  in 
the  garden,  *  Where  is  Abel,  thy  brother  ? '  " 

I  can't  bear  to  hear  Mr.  P.  talk  in  that  way :  it 
sounds  so  like  preaching ;  not  precisely  like  what  I 
hear  at  church,  but  like  what  we  mean  when  we  say 
"  preaching,"  without  referring  to  any  particular  ser- 
mon. However,  he  grants  that  young  Timon  is  an 
extreme  case :  but  he  says  it  is  the  result  that 
proves  the  principle ;  and  a  state  of  feeling  which 
not  only  all5ws,  but  indirectly  fosters,  that  result,  is 
frightful  to  think  of. 

"Don't  think  of  it  then,  Mr.  P.,"  said  I.  He 
looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  the  sternest  scowl  I 
ever  saw  upon  a  man's  face ;  then  he  suddenly  ran 
up  to  me,  and  kissed  me  on  the  forehead  (although 
my  hair  was  all  dressed  for  Mrs.  Gnu's  dinner),  and 
went  out  of  the  house.     He  hasn't  said  much  to  mc 


38  Tif^  4SURE-  TRO  VE. 

since;  but  he  speaks  very  gently  when  he  dcxis 
speak,  and  sometimes  I  catch  him  looking  at  me  in 
such  a  singular  way,  so  half  mournful,  that  Mr. 
Cheese's  eyes  don't  seem  so  very  sad,  after  all. 

However,  to  return  to  the  party :  I  believe  nothing 
else  was  injured,  except  the  curtains  in  the  front 
drawing-room,  which  were  so  smeared  with  ice- 
cream and  oyster-gravy,  that  we  must  get  new  ones  ; 
and  the  cover  of  my  porcelain  tureen  was  broken  by 
the  servant,  though  the  man  said  he  really  didn't 
mean  to  do  it,  and  I  could  say  nothing  j  and  a  party 
of  young  men,  after  the  German  cotillon,  did  let  fall 
that  superb  cut-glass  claret,^  and  shivered  it,  with  a 
dozen  of  the  delicately-engraved  straw-stems  that 
stood  upon  the  waiter.  That  was  all,  I  believe  — 
oh  !  except  that  fine  "  Dresden  Gallery,"  the  most 
splendid  book  I  ever  saw,  full  of  engravings  of  the 
great  pictures  in  Dresden,  Vienna,  and  the  other 
Italian  towns,  and  which  was  sent  to  Islr.  P.  by  an 
old  friend,  an  artist,  whom  he  had  helped  along 
when  he  was  very  poor.  Somebody  unfortunately 
tipped  over  a  bottle  of  claret  that  stood  upon  the 
table  (I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  it  got  there, 
though  Mr.  P.  says  Gauche  Boosey  knows),  and  it 
lay   soaking   into    the    boc-k ;    so  that  almost  every 


x/':pv  livery,  and  other  things.     39 

picture  has  a  claret  stain,  which  looks  so  funny.  I 
am  very  sorry,  1  am  su'e ;  but,  as  I  tell  Mr.  P., 
it's  no  use  crying  for  spilt  milk.  I  was  telling  Mr. 
Boosey  of  it  at  the  Gnus'  dinner.  He  laughed  very 
much  ;  and,  when  I  said  that  a  good  many  of  the  faces 
were  sadly  stained,  he  said  in  his  droll  way,  "  You 
ought  to  call  it  L' opera  di  Bordeaux;  Le  Domino 
rouge.''  I  supposed  it  was  something  funny,  so  I 
laughed  a  good  deal.     He  said  to  me  later,  — 

"  Shall  I  pour  a  little  claret  into  your  book  —  I 
mean  into  your  glass?" 

Wasn't  it  a  pretty  bon-mot  1 

Don't  you  think  we  are  getting  very  spirituel  in 
this  country? 

I  believe  there  was  nothing  else  injured,  except 
the  bed-hangings  in  the  back-room,  which  were 
somehow  badly  burnt,  and  very  much  torn  in  pulling 
down ;  and  a  few  of  our  handsomest  shades  that 
were  cracked  by  the  heat ;  and  a  few  plates,  which  it 
was  hardly  fair  to  expect  wouldn't  be  broken  ;  and 
the  colored  glass  door  in  my  escritoire^  against  which 
Flattie  Podge  fell  as  she  was  dancing  with  Gauche 
Boosey  ;  but  he  may  have  been  a  little  excited  you 
know,  and  she,  poor  girl,  couldn't  help  tumbling, 
and  as  her   head   hit  the  glass,  of  course  it  broke, 


40  /A'/-  W  S/    S  h-  /  A  "  '    A 

and  cut  her  head  badly,  so  that  the  blood  ran  down^ 
and  naturally  spoiled  her  dress ;  and  what  little 
escritoire  could  stand  against  Flattie  Podge?  So 
that  went,  and  was  a  good  deal  smashed  in  falling. 
That's  all,  I  think,  except  that  the  next  day  Mrs 
Croesus  sent  a  note,  saying  that  she  had  lost  hei 
largest  diamond  from  her  necklace;  and  she  was 
sure  that  it  was  not  in  the  carriage,  nor  in  her  own 
house,  nor  upon  the  sidewalk,  for  she  had  carefully 
looked  everj'where,  and  she  would  be  very  glad  if  J 
would  return  it  by  the  bearer. 

Think  of  that! 

Well,  we  hunted  everjrwhere,  and  found  no 
diamond.  I  took  particular  pains  to  ask  the  ser- 
vants if  they  had  found  it ;  for,  if  they  had,  they 
might  as  well  give  it  up  at  once,  without  expecting 
any  reward  from  Mrs.  Croesus,  who  wasn't  ver)' 
generous.  But  they  all  said  they  hadn't  found  any 
diamond ;  and  our  man  John,  who  you  know  is  so 
guileless,  —  although  it  was  a  little  mysterious 
about  that  emerald  pin  of  mine,  —  brought  me  a  bit 
of  glass  that  had  been  nicked  out  of  my  large  cus- 
tard-dish, and  asked  me  if  that  was  not  Mrs.  Croe- 
sus's diamond.  I  told  him  no,  and  gave  him  a  gold 
dollar  for  his  honest)\  John  is  an  invaluable  ser 
vant ;  he  is  so  guileless. 


NEW  LIVt.h'W    A.\'/'    nr//hA'     lH/.\i,S         41 

Do  you  know,  J  am  not  so  sure  about  Mrs.  Crassusi 
diarnund  I 

Mr.  P.  made  a  great  growling  about  the  ball. 
Hut  it  was  very  foolish,  for  he  got  safely  to  bed  by 
six  o'clock;  and  he  need  ha\e  no  trouble  about 
replacing  the  curtains  and  glass,  &c.  I  shall  do  all 
that ;  and  the  sum  total  will  be  sent  to  him  in  a 
lump,  so  that  he  can  pay  it. 

Men  are  so  unreasonable !  Fancy  us  at  seven 
o'clock  that  morning,  when  I  retired.  He  wasn't 
asleep.     But  whose  fault  was  that  ? 

"  Polly,"  said  he,  "  that's  the  last" 

*'  Last  what?"  said  I. 

"  Last  ball  at  my  house,"  said  he. 

"  I-'iddle-dee-dee,"  said  L 

"  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Potiphar,  I  am  not  going  to 
open  my  house  for  a  crowd  of  people  who  don't  go 
away  till  daylight,  who  spoil  my  books  and  furni- 
ture, who  involve  me  in  a  foolish  expense  ;  for  a 
gang  of  rowdy  boys,  who  drink  my  Margaux  and 
Lafitte  and  Marcobrunner  (what  kind  of  drinks  are 
those,  dear  Caroline?),  and  who  don't  know  Cham- 
bertin  from  licorice-water ;  for  a  swarm  of  per- 
sons few  of  whom  know  me,  fewer  still  care  foi 
me,  and  to   whom    I   am    only   '  Old    Potiphar,'   the 


42  TREASURE-TROVE, 

husband  of  you,  a  fashionable  woman.     I  am  sint- 
ply  resolved  to  have  no  more  such  tom-foolery  in 

my  house." 

"  Dear  Mr.  P.,"  said  I,  "you'll  feel  much  better 
when  you  have  slept.  Besides,  why  do  you  say 
such  things }  Mustn't  we  see  our  friends,  I  should 
like  to  know ;  and,  if  we  do,  are  you  going  to  let 
your  wife  receive  them  in  a  manner  inferior  to  old 
Mrs.  Podge  or  Mrs.  Croesus  ?  People  will  accuse 
you  of  meanness,  and  of  treating  me  ill ;  and,  if 
some  persons  hear  that  you  have  reduced  your  style 
of  living,  they  will  begin  to  suspect  the  state  of 
your  affairs.  Don't  make  any  rash  vows,  Mr.  P.," 
said  I,  "  but  go  to  sleep." 

(Do  you  know  that  speech  was  just  what  Mrs. 
Crcesns  told  me  she  had  said  to  her  husband  under 
similar  circumstances  ?) 

Mr.  P.  fairly  groaned  ;  and  I  heard  that  short, 
strong  little  word  that  sometimes  inadvertently 
drops  out  of  the  best-regulated  mouths,  as  young 
Gooseberry  Downe  says  when  he  swears  before 
his  mother.  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Settum  Downe  ? 
Charming  woman,  but  satirical. 

Mr.  P.  groaned,  and  said  some  more  ill-natured 
things,    until    the    clock    struck   nine,   and    he    wa« 


NEW  JJ  \' Lin'  AXn  ( >  1  li  i.K    Jj//\<..^         -),- 

oblij^cd  to  get  up.  I  should  be  sorry  to  say  to  any- 
body but  you, dearest,  that  I  was  rather  glad  of  it; 
for  I  could  then  fall  asleep  at  my  ease;  and  these 
little  connui>ial  felicities  (I  think  tlicy  call  them) 
are  so  tiresome!  But  everybody  agreed  it  was  a 
beautiful  ball;  and  I  had  the  great  gratification  of 
hearing  young  Lord  Mount  Ague  (you  know  you 
danced  witii  him,  love)  say  that  it  was  quite  the 
same  thing  as  a  ball  at  Buckingham  Palace,  except 
of  course,  in  size,  and  the  number  of  persons  and 
dresses  and  jewels,  and  the  plate  and  glass  and  sup- 
per and  wines,  and  furnishing  of  the  rooms,  and 

'  lights,  and  some  of  those  things,  which  are  natur- 
ally upon  a  larger  scale  at  a  palace  than  in  a  private 
house.  But  he  said,  excepting  such  things,  it  was 
quite  as  fine.     I  am  afraid  Lord  ^Slount  Ague  flat- 

\    ters — ,  just  a  little  bit,  you  know. 

i'  Yes;  and  there  was  young  Major  Staggers,  who 
said,  that  "  Decidedly  it  was  the  party  of  the  sea- 
son." 

"  IIow  odd!  "  said  Mrs.  Croesus,  to  whom  I  told 
it,  and,  I  confess,  with  a  little  pride.  "  What  a 
sympathetic  man!  that  is,  for  a  military  man,  I 
mean.  Would  you  believe,  Dear  Mrs.  Potiphar, 
that  he  said  precisely  the  same  thing  to  me  two 
days  after  my  ball?" 


4  4  TREA  S  URE-  TR  O  VE. 

Now,  Caroline  dearest,  perhaps  he  did  1 

With  all  these  pleasant  things  said  about  one  s 
party,  I  cannot  see  that  it  is  such  a  dismal  thing  as 
Mr.  P.  tries  to  make  out.  After  one  of  his  solemn 
talks,  I  asked  Mr.  Cheese  what  he  thought  of  balls, 
whether  it  was  so  ver}'  wicked  to  dance,  and  go  to 
parties,  if  one  only  went  to  church  twice  a  day  on 
Sundays.  He  patted  his  lips  a  moment  with  his 
handkerchief  ;  and  then  he  said,  —  and,  Caroline, 
you  can  always  quote  the  Rev.  Cream  Cheese  as 
authority,  — 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Potiphar,  it  is  recorded  in  Holy 
Scripture  that  the  king  danced  before  the  Lord." 

Darling,  if  any  thing  should  happen^  I  don'v  believe 
he  would  object  much  to  your  dancing. 

What  gossips  we  women  are,  to  be  sure  !  I  meant 
to  write  you  about  our  new  livery,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
have  tired  you  out  already.  You  remember  when 
vou  were  here,  I  said  that  I  meant  to  have  a  livery  ; 
for  my  sister  Margaret  told  me,  that  when  they  used 
to  drive  in  Hyde  Park,  with  the  old  Marquis  of 
Mammon,  it  was  always  so  delightful  to  hear  him 
say,  — 

"  Ah  !  there  is  Lady  Lobster's  liver)-." 

It  was  so  aristocratic  !      And    in   Cvountries  whe^e 


NEW   LIVERY,    AND    UTnE^    'I'HINGS.        41. 

D'rtain  colors  distinguish  certain  families,  and  are 
hereditary,  so  to  say,  it  is  convenient  and  pleasant 
to  recognize  a  coat-of-arms,  or  a  liver)',  and  to  know 
that  the  representative  of  a  great  and  famous  family 
is  passing  by. 

"  That's  a  Howard,  that's  a  Russell,  that's  a  Dor- 
set, that's  De  C^Iique,  that's  Mount  Ague,"  old  Lord 
Mammon  used  lo  say  as  the  carriages  whirled  by. 
He  knew  none  of  them  personally,  I  believe,  ex- 
cepit  De  Colique  and  Mount  Ague  ;  but  then  it  was 
so  agreeable  to  be  able  to  know  their  liveries. 

j^'^ov,',  why  shouldn't  we  have  the  same  arrange- 
ment ?  Why  not  have  the  Smith  colors,  and  the 
Brown  colors,  and  the  Black  colors,  and  the  Potiphar 
colors,  &c.,  so  that  the  people  might  say,  "Ah  !  there 
go  the  Potiphar  arms  "  } 

There  is  one  difficulty,  Mr.  P.  says  ;  and  that  is, 
that  he  found  five  hundred  and  sixty-seven  Smiths 
in  the  directory,  which  might  lead  to  some  confu- 
sion. But  that  was  absurd,  as  I  told  him,  because 
ever)'body  would  know  which  of  the  Smiths  was 
able  to  keep  a  carriage  ;  so  that  the  liver}'  would  be 
recognized  directly  the  moment  that  any  of  the 
family  were  seen  in  the  carriage.  Upon  which  he 
said,  in  his  provoking  way,  "  Why  have  any  liver}'  at 


1  < )  /"A  A  AS  URE-  Tk  O  VE. 

all,  then  ?  "  and  he  persisted  in  saying  thaf  no  Smith 
was  ever  the  Smith  for  three  generations,  and  that 
he  knew  at  least  twenty',  each  of  whom  was  able  to 
set  up  his  carriage,  and  stand  by  his  coiors. 

"  But  then  a  livery  is  so  elegant  and  aristocratic," 
said  I,  "  and  it  shows  that  a  servant  is  a  servant." 

That  last  was  a  strong  argument ;  and  I  thought 
Mr.  P.  would  have  nothing  to  say  against  it.  But  he 
'attled  on  for  some  time,  asking  me  what  right  I  had 
to  be  aristocratic,  or,  in  fact,  anybody  else ;  went 
over  his  eternal  old  talk  about  aping  foreign  habits, 
as  if  we  hadn't  a  right  to  adopt  the  good  usages  of 
ill  nations  ;  and  finally  said  that  the  use  of  liveries 
imong  us  was  rot  only  a  "pure  peacock  absurdity.," 
as  he  called  it,  but  that  no  genuine  American  would 
ever  ask  another  to  assume  a  menial  badge. 

"  Why !  "  said  I,  "  is  not  an  American  ser\'ant  a 
sen'ant  still .? " 

"  Most  undoubtedly,"  ^e  said  ;  "  and  when  a  man 
>s  a  ser\'ant,  let  him  serve  faithfully  ;  and  in  this 
country  especially,  where  to-morrow  he  may  be  the 
served,  and  not  the  ser\'ant,  let  him  not  be  ashamed 
of  serving.  But,  Mrs.  Potiphar,  J  beg  you  to 
ibserv^e  that  a  serv^ant's  liver)'  is  not,  Lke  a  general's 
uniform,    the    badge    of    honorable    service,    but   of 


.VE^V  LIVERY,    AND   OTHER    THINGS.       47 

ttvenial  service.  Of  course,  a  servant  may  be  a? 
h.)norable  as  a  general,  and  his  work  quite  as  nece/s 
sary  and  well  done.  But,  for  all  that,  it  is  not  so 
respected  nor  coveted  a  situation,  I  believe  ;  and;  in 
social  estimation,  a  man  suffers  by  wearing  a  livery, 
as  he  never  would  if  he  wore  none.  And  while,  in 
countries  in  which  a  man  is  proud  of  being  a  servant 
(as  every  man  may  well  be  of  being  a  good  one), 
and  never  looks  to  any  thing  else,  nor  desires  any 
change,  a  livery  may  be  very  proper  to  the  state  of 
society,  and  ver)'  agreeable  to  his  own  feelings,  it  is 
quite  another  thing  in  a  society  constituted  upon 
altogether  different  principles,  where  the  servant  of 
to-day  is  the  senator  of  to-morrow.  Besides  that, 
which  I  suppose  is  too  fine-spun  for  you,  kver}-  is  a 
remnant  of  a  feudal  state,  of  which  we  abolish  every 
trace  as  fast  as  we  can.  That  which  is  represented 
by  livery  is  not  consonant  with  our  principles." 

How  the  man  runs  on,  when  he  gets  going  this 
way !  I  said,  in  answer  to  all  this  flourish,  tnat  I 
considered  a  livery  very  much  the  tiling ;  that  Euro- 
pean families  had  liveries,  and  American  families 
might  have  liveries  ;  that  there  was  an  end  of  it, 
and  I  meant  to  have  one.  Besides,  if  it  is  a  matter 
of  family,  I  should   ''V-e   to  know  who   has   a   better 


fS  TREASURE  TROVE. 

/•ight?  There  was  Mr.  Potiphar's  grandfather,  to 
be  sure,  was  only  a  skilful  blacksmith  and  a  good 
citizen,  as  ]Mr.  P.  says,  who  brought  up  a  family 
in  the  fear  of  the  Lord. 

How  oddly  he  puts  those  things! 

But  my  ancestors,  as  you  know,  are  a  different 
matter.  Starr  Mole,  who  interests  himself  in  ec- 
nealogies,  and  knows  the  family  name  and  crest  of 
all  the  English  nobility,  has  "  climbed  our  family 
tree,"  as  Staggers  says,  and  finds  that  I  am  lineally 
descended  from  one  of  those  two  brothers  who 
came  over  in  some  of  those  old  times.  In  some  of 
those  old  ships,  and  settled  in  some  of  those  old 
places  somewhere.  So  you  see,  dear  Caroline,  if 
birth  gives  any  one  a  right  to  coats-of-arms  and 
liveries,  and  all  those  things,  I  feel  myself  sufii- 
ciently  entitled  to  have  them. 

But  I  don't  care  anything  about  that.  The  Gnus 
and  Croesuses  and  Silkes,  and  the  Settum  Downes, 
have  their  coats-of-arms,  and  crests,  and  liveries, 
and  I  am  not  going  to  be  behind,  I  tell  you.  ]Mr.  P. 
ought  to  remember  that  a  great  many  of  these  fami- 
lies were  famous  before  they  came  to  this  countr}^ ; 
and  there  is  a  kind  of  interest  in  having  on  your 
ring,  for  instance,  the  same  crest  that  your  ancestor, 


two  or  three  centunes  ag^.,  nad  upon  her  ring.  One 
day  I  was  quite  wrought  up  about  the  matter,  and  I 
said  as  much  to  him. 

"Certainly,"  said  he,  "certainly:  you  are  quite 
right.  If  I  had  Sir  Philip  Sidney  to  my  ancestor.  I 
should  wear  his  crest  upon  my  ring,  and  glor)-  in  my 
relationship  ;  and  I  hope  I  should  be  a  better  man 
for  it.  I  wouldn't  put  his  arms  upon  my  carriage, 
however,  because  that  would  mean  nothing  but 
ostentation.  It  would  be  merely  a  flourish  of  trum- 
pets to  say  that  I  was  his  descendant,  and  nobody 
would  know  that,  either,  if  my  name  chanced  to  be 
Boggs.  In  my  library  I  might  hang  a  copy  of  the 
family  escutcheon  as  a  matter  of  interest  and  curi- 
osity to  myself,  for  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  understand 
it.  Do  you  suppose  Mrs.  Gnu  knows  what  gules 
argent  are  ?  A  man  may  be  as  proud  of  his  family 
as  he  chooses,  and,  if  he  has  noble  ancestors,  with 
good  reason.  But  there  is  no  sense  in  parading  that 
pride.  It  is  an  affectation,  the  more  foolish  that  it 
achieves  nothing,  no  more  credit  at  Stewart's,  no 
more  real  respect  in  society.  Besides,  Polly,  who 
were  Mrs.  Gnu's  ancestors,  or  Mrs.  Crcesus's,  or 
Mrs.  Settum  Downe's  "*.  Good,  quiet,  honest,  and 
humble  people,   who   did    their  wcrrk,  and   rest   from 


5  c  7  'A-  A  .^  S  r  '/;  A  -TROVE 

their  labors.  Centuries  ago,  in  England,  some  drops 
of  blood  from  *  noble  '  veins  may  have  mingled  with 
die  blood  of  their  forefathers ;  or  even  the  founder  of 
the  family  name  may  be  historically  famous.  What 
tnen  ?  Is  Mrs.  Gnu's  family  ostentation  less 
absurd  t  Do  you  understand  the  meaning  of  hei 
crest,  and  coats-of-arms,  and  liveries  ?  Do  you 
suppose  she  does  herself?  But  in  forty-nine  cases 
out  of  fifty,  there  is  nothing  but  a  similarity  ot 
name  upon  which  to  found  all  this  flourish  of  aris- 
tocracy." 

My  dear  old  Pot  is  getting  rather  prosy,  Carrie. 
So  when  he  had  finished  that  long  speech,  during 
which  I  was  looking  at  the  lovely  fashion-plates  In 
Harper,  I  said,  — 

"  What  colors  do  you  think  I'd  better  have  ?  " 
He  looked  at  me  with  that  singular  expression, 
and   went   out   suddenly,    as   if   he  were  afraid   he 
•nighl  say  something. 

He  had  scarcely  gone  before  I  heard,  — 
"My   dear   Mrs.    Potiphar,    the   sight   of   you   is 
refreshing  as  Hermon's  dew." 

I  colored  a  little.  Mr.  Cheese  says  such  things 
so  softly  1  But  I  said  good-morning,  and  then  asked 
him  about  liveries,  &c. 


NEW  LIVERY,    AND   OTHER    THINGS.       51 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  cravat  (it  was  the  most 
snowy  lawn,  Carrie,  and  tied  in  a  splendid  bow). 

"  Is  not  this  a  livery,  dear  Mrs.  Potiphar  ? " 

And  then  he  went  off  into  one  of  those  pretty 
talks,  in  what  Mr.  P.  calls  "the  language  of  arti- 
ficial flowers,"  and  wound  up  by  i^xoting  Scripture  : 
"  Servants,  obey  your  masters." 

That  was  enough  'or  me.  So  f  told  Mr.  Cheese, 
that,  as  he  had  already  assisted  me  in  colors  once,  1 
should  be  most  glad  to  have  him  do  so  again. 
What  a  time  we  had,  to  be  sure,  talking  01  colors, 
and  cloths,  and  gaiters,  and  buttons,  and  knee- 
breeches,  and  waistcoats,  and  plush,  and  coats,  am* 
lace,  and  hatbands,  and  gloves,  and  cravats,  and 
cords,  and  tassels,  and  hats.  Oh,  it  was  delight- 
ful !  You  can't  fancy  how  heartily  the  Rev.  Cream 
entered  into  the  matter.  He  was  quite  enthusiastic, 
and  at  last  he  said,  with  so  much  expression,  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Potiphar,  why  not  have  a  chasseur  V 

I  thought  it  was  some  kind  of  French  dish  for 
lunch  :  so  I  said,  — 

"  I  am  so  sorry  ;  but  we  haven't  any  in  the  house.* 

"Oh  I"  said  he;  "but  you  could  hire  one,  you 
'uiow." 

Then  I  thought  it  must  be  a  musical  instrument, 


5  2  rh'  A  AS  Ik  E-  7  /C  Of'' A. 

a  panharmonicon,  or  something  of  that  kind .  sf)  1 
said  in  a  general  way,  — 

"  I'm  not  very,  very  fond  of  it" 

"  But  it  would  be  so  fine  to  have  him  standing  on 
the  back  of  the  carriage,  his  plumes  waving  in  the 
wind,  and  his  lace  and  polished  belts  flashing  in  the 
sun,  as  you  whirled  dowTi  Broadway." 

Of  course  I  knew  then  that  he  was  speaking  of 
those  military  gentlemen  who  ride  behind  carriages, 
especially  upon  the  Continent,  as  Margaret  tells  me, 
and  who  in  Paris  are  very  useful  to  keep  the 
savages  and  wild  beasts  at  bay  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  ;  for  you  know  they  are  intended  as  a  guard. 

But  I  knew  Mr.  P.  would  be  firm  about  that :  sc  J 
asked  Mr.  Cheese  not  to  kindle  my  imagination 
with  the  chasseur. 

We  concluded,  finally,  to  have  only  one  full-sized 
footman,  and  a  fat  driver. 

"  The  corpulence  is  essential,  dear  Mrs.  Foti- 
phar,"  said  Mr.  Cheese.  "  I  have  been  mucli 
abroad  ;  I  have  mingled,  I  trust,  in  good,  which  is  to 
8ay,  Christian  society ;  and  I  must  say,  that  few 
things  struck  me  more  upon  my  return  than  that  the 
ladies  who  drive  very  handsome  carriages,  with  foot- 
men, &c.,  in  liver^',  should  perrnit  such   diin  coach- 


NEW  LIVERY,   AND   OT/fF.R    TfflNGS.       53 

men  upon  the  box.  I  really  believe  that  Mrs. 
Settum  Downe's  coachman  doesn't  weigh  more  than 
a  hundred  and  thirty  pounds,  which  is  ridiculous. 
A  lady  might  as  well  hire  a  footman  with  insufficient 
calves,  as  a  coachman  who  weighs  less  than  two 
hundred  and  ten.  That  is  the  minimum.  Besides, 
1  don't  observe  any  wigs  upon  the  coachmen.  Now, 
if  a  lady  sets  up  her  carriage  with  the  family  crest, 
and  fine  liveries,  why,  I  should  like  to  know,  is  the  wig 
of  the  coachman  omitted,  and  his  cocked  hat  also  t 
It  is  a  kind  of  shabby,  half-ashamed  way  of  doing 
things, — a  garbled  glory.  The  cock-hatted,  knee- 
breeched,  paste-buckled,  horse-hair-wigged  coach- 
man is  one  of  the  institutions  of  the  aristocracy. 
If  we  don't  have  him  complete,  we  somehow  make 
ourselves  ridiculous.  If  we  do  have  him  complete, 
why,  then  "  — 

Here  Mr.  Cheese  coughed  a  little,  and  patted  his 
mouth  with  his  cambric.  But  what  he  said  was  very 
true.  I  should  like  to  come  out  with  the  wig  —  I 
mean  upon  the  coachman  :  it  would  so  put  down 
the  Settum  Downes.  But  I'm  sure  old  Pot  wouldn't 
have  it.  He  lets  me  do  a  great  deal.  But  there  is 
a  line  which  I  feel  he  won't  let  me  pass.  I  men- 
tioned my  fears  to  Mr.  Cheese. 


"  Well,"  he  said,  *'  Mr.  Potiphar  may  be  right  \ 
*emember  an  expression  *5f  my  carnal  days  about 
coming  it  too  strong,'  which  seems  -n  me  to  l:»e 
applicable  just  here." 

After  a  little  more  talk,  I  determined  to  have  red 
plush  breeches,  with  a  black  cord  at  the  side ;  white 
stockings ;  low  shoes  with  large  buckles ;  a  yellow 
waistcoat  with  large  buttons,  lappels  to  the  pockets  : 
and  a  purple  coat,  very  full  and  fine,  bound  witli 
gold  lace  ;  and  the  hat  banded  with  a  full  gold  ro- 
sette. Don't  you  think  that  would  look  well  in  Hyde 
Park  ?  And,  darling  Carrie,  why  shouldn't  we  have 
in  Broadway  what  they  have  in  Hyde  Park  ? 

When  Mr.  P.  came  in,  I  told  him  all  about  it, 
He  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  said,  "  What  next  ?  " 
So  I  am  not  sure  he  would  be  so  very  hard  upon 
the  wig.  The  next  morning  I  had  appointed  to  see 
the  new  footman;  and,  as  Mr.  P.  went  out,  he 
turned,  and  said  to  me,  "  Is  your  footman  coming 
to-day  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  don't  forget  the  calves.  You 
know  that  every  thing,  in  the  matter  of  liver^%  de- 
pends upon  the  calves." 

And  he  went  out,  laughing  silently  to  himselt. 
¥dth  —  actually,  Canie  —  a  tear  in  bis  eve. 


NEW  LIVERY,   AND   OTHER    THINGS.       55 

But  it  was  true,  wasn't  it  ?  I  remember  in  all  the 
books  and  pictures  how  much  is  said  about  the 
calves.  In  advertisements,  &c.,  it  is  stated,  that 
none  but  well-developed  calves  need  apply ;  at  least, 
it  is  so  in  England,  and,  if  I  have  a  livery,  I  am  not 
[;oing  to  stop  half-way.  My  duty  was  ver)*  clear. 
When  Mr.  Cheese  came  in,  I  said  I  felt  awkward  in 
asking  a  servant  about  his  calves  :  it  sounded  so 
queerly.     But  I  confessed  that  it  was  necessary. 

"  Ves ;  the  path  of  duty  is  not  aiways  smooth, 
dear  Mrs.  Potiphar.  It  is  often  thickly  strewn  with 
thorns,"  said  he,  as  he  sank  back  in  tht/auteuil,  and 
put  down  his  petit  verre  of  Marasquin. 

Just  after  he  had  gone,  the  new  footman  was  an- 
nounced. I  assure  you,  although  it  is  ridiculous,  I 
felt  quite  nervous.  But,  when  he  came  in,  I  said 
calmly,  — 

"  Well,  James,  I  am  glad  you  have  come." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  my  name  is  Henry,"  said  he. 

I  was  astonished  at  his  taking  me  up  so,  and  said 
decidedly,  — 

"  James,  the  name  of  my  footman  is  always  James. 
You  may  call  yourself  what  you  please  :  J  shall 
always  call  you  James." 

The  idea  of  the  man's  undertaking  to  arrange  m^ 
servants'  names  for  me  1   . 


56  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

Well,  he  showed  roe  his  references,  which  w<re 
very  good  :  and  I  was  quite  satisfied.  But  there 
was  the  terrible  calf-business  that  must  be  attended 
to.  I  put  it  off  a  great  while ;  but  I  had  to 
begin. 

"  Well,  James  !  "  and  there  I  stopped 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  he. 

"  I  wish  —  yes  —  ah !  "  and  I  stopped  again, 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  he. 

"James,  I  wish  you  had  come  in  knee-breeches. 

"  Ma'am  >  "  said  he  in  great  surprise. 

"  In  knee-breeches,  James,"  repeated  I. 

*'  What  be  they,  ma'am  1  \Miatfor,  ma'am  ?  "  said 
he,  a  little  frightened,  as  I  thought 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing ;  but  —  but  "  — 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  James. 

"  But  —  but  I  want  to  see  —  to  see  "  — 

"  Wbat,  ma'am  "i "  said  James. 

'•'  Your  legs,"  gasped  I  ;  and  the  path  was  thorny 
enough,  Carrie,  I  can  tell  you.  I  had  a  terrible 
time  explaining  to  him  what  I  meant,  and  all  about 
the  liveries,  &:c.  Dear  me  !  what  a  pity  these  things 
are  not  understood ;  and  then  we  should  never  have 
this  trouble  about  expl.inarvons.  However,  I  couldn't 
make  him  a^ee  to  we.^r  tnc  livery.      }{e  said, — 


NEW  LIVEKY,    AND   OTHER    THIXG.S.        «,7 

'*  I'll  try  to  be  a  good  servant,  ma'am  ;  but  I  cm- 
not  put  on  those  things,  and  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
I  hope  you  won't  insist ;  for  I  am  very  anxious  to  get 
a  place." 

Think  of  his  dictating  to  me  I  I  told  him  that  I 
did  not  permit  my  servants  to  impose  conditions 
upon  me  (that's  one  of  Mrs.  Croesus's  sayings),  that 
I  was  willing  to  pay  him  good  wages,  and  treat  him 
well,  but  that  my  James  must  wear  my  livery.  He 
looked  very  sorry,  said  that  he  should  like  the  place 
very  much;  that  he  was  satisfied  with  the  wages, 
and  was  sure  he  should  please  me :  but  he  could  not 
put  on  those  things.  We  were  both  determined, 
and  so  parted,  I  think  we  were  both  sorry ;  for  I 
should  have  to  go  all  through  the  calf-business 
again,  and  he  lost  a  good  place. 

However,  Caroline,  dear,  I  have  my  livery  and  my 
footman,  and  am  as  good  as  anybody.  It's  ver\' 
splendid  when  I  go  to  Stewart's  to  have  the  red 
plush,  and  the  purple,  and  the  white  calves,  spring- 
ing down  to  open  the  door,  and  to  see  people  lorjk, 
and  say,  "  I  wonder  who  that  is  !  "  And  everybody 
bows  so  nicely !  and  the  clerks  are  so  polite!  and 
Mrs.  Gnu  is  melting  with  env}-  on  the  other  side  \ 
and  Mrs.   Croesus  goes   about,  saying,  "  Dear  little 


jS  '  TREASURE-TROVE. 

woman,  that  Mrs.  Potiphar,  but  so  weak  I  Pitf, 
pity !  "  And  Mrs.  Settum  Downe  says,  "  Is  that  tl:  e 
Potiphar  livery  t  Ah,  yes  1  Mr.  Potiphar's  grand- 
father used  to  shoe  my  grandfather's  horses  "  (as  if 
to  be  useful  in  the  world  were  a  disgrace,  as  Mr.  P. 
says).  And  young  Downe  and  Boosey  and  Timon 
Croesus  come  up  and  stand  about  so  gentlemanly, 
and  say,  "Well,  Mrs.  Potiphar,  are  we  to  have  no 
more  charming  parties  this  season  ? "  and  Boosey 
says,  in  his  droll  way, "  Let's  keep  the  ball  a-rolling  !  " 
That  young  man  is  always  ready  with  a  v/itticism. 
Then  I  step  out,  and  James  throws  open  the  door ; 
and  the  young  men  raise  their  hats ;  and  the  new 
crowd  says,  "  I  wonder  who  that  is  !  "  and  the  plush, 
and  purple,  and  calves  spring  up  behind,  and  I  drive 
home  to  dinner. 

Now,  Carrie  dear,  isn't  that  nice  ? 

Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  is ;  but  things  are  so 
queer !  Sometimes  when  I  wake  up  in  the  morning, 
in  my  room,  which  I  have  had  tapestried  with  fluted 
rose  silk,  and  lie  thinking  under  the  lace  curtains  • 
although  I  may  have  been  at  one  of  Mrs.  Gnu's 
splendid  parties  the  night  before,  and  am  going  to 
Mrs.  Silke's  to  dinner,  and  to  the  opera  and  Mrs. 
Settum  DouTie's  in  the  evening,  and  have  nothing  to 


NK  VV  LJ  I 'KK  >',    A  i\' t)    » >  'J  Ji i\  A     J  /nW  u.S . 


:>') 


do  all  day  but  go  to  Stewart's,  or  Martelle's.  or 
Lefevre's  and  shop,  and  pay  morning-calls,  —  do 
you  know,  as  I  say,  that  sometimes  I  hear  an  old 
familiar  tune  played  upon  a  hand-organ  far  away 
in  some  street,  and  it  seems  to  me,  in  that  half- 
drowsy  state  under  the  laces,  that  I  hear  the  girls 
and  boys  singing  it  in  the  fields  where  we  used  to 
play?  It  is  a  kind  of  dream,  I  suppose  ;  but  often, 
as  I  listen,  I  am  sure  that  I  hear  Henry's  voice 
again,  that  used  to  ring  so  gayly  among  the  old  trees, 
and  I  walk  with  him  in  the  sunlight  to  the  bank  by 
the  river ;  and  he  throws  in  the  flower,  —  as  he  really 
did,  —  and  says  with  a  laugh,  "  If  it  goes  this  side 
of  the  stump,  I  am  saved ;  if  the  other,  I  am  lost ; " 
and  then  looks  at  me  as  if  I  had  any  thing  to  do 
with  it.  And  the  flower  drifts  slowly  off  and  off,  and 
goes  the  other  side  of  the  old  stump,  and  we  walk 
homeward  silently,  until  Henry  laughs  out,  and  says, 
"  Thank  Heaven,  my  fate  is  not  a  flower  ; "  and  I 
swear  to  love  him  for  ever  and  ever,  and  marry  him, 
and  live  in  a  dingy  little  old  room  in  some  of  the 
dark  and  dirty  streets  in  the  city. 

Then  I  doze  again :  but  presently  the  music 
steals  mto  my  sleep,  and  I  see  him,  as  I  saw  him 
last,  standing  in  his  pulpit,  so  calm  and  noble,  and 


drawing  the  strong  men  as  well  as  the  weak  womc  * 

by  his  earnest  persuasion;  and  after  service  he 
smiles  upon  me  kindly,  and  says,  "  This  is  my  wife  ; " 
and  the  wife,  who  looks  like  the  Madonna  in  that 
picture  of  Andrea  Del  Sarto's  which  you  liked  so 
at  the  gallery,  leads  us  to  a  little  house  buried  in 
roses,  looking  upon  a  broad  and  lovely  landscape ; 
and  Henry  whispers  to  me,  as  a  beautiful  boy  bounds 
mto  the  room,  "Mrs.  Potiphar,  I  am  very  happy." 

I  doze  agam  until  Adele  comes  in,  and  opens  the 
shutters.  I  do  not  hear  the  music  any  more ;  but 
those  days  I  do  somehow  seem  to  hear  it  all  the 
time.  Of  course,  Mr.  P.  is  gone  long  before  I 
wake  :  so  he  knows  nothing  about  all  this.  I  gener- 
ally come  in  at  night  after  he  is  asleep ;  and  he  is 
up,  and  has  his  breakfast,  and  goes  down  town,  be- 
fore I  wake  in  the  morning.  He  comes  home  to 
dinner,  but  he  is  apt  to  be  silent ;  and,  after  dinner, 
he  takes  his  nap  in  the  parlor,  over  his  newspaper, 
while  I  go  up  and  let  Ad^le  dress  my  hair  for  the 
evening.  Sometimes  Mr.  P.  groans  into  a  clean 
shirt,  and  goes  vdth  me  to  the  ball,  but  not  often. 
WTien  I  come  home,  as  I  said,  he  is  asleep :  so  I 
don't  see  a  great  deal  of  him,  except  in  the  sum- 
mer, when   I  am  at  Saratoga  or  Newport,  and  then 


rot  SO  much,  after  all;  tor  he  usually  only  passes 
Junday,  and  I  must  be  a  good  Christian,  you  know, 
md  go  to  church.  On  the  whole,  we  have  not  a 
very  intimate  acquaintance ;  but  I  have  a  great 
respect  for  him.  He  told  me  the  other  day,  that  he 
should  make  at  least  thirty  thousand  dollars  this 
year. 

My  darling  Carrie,  I  am  very  sorry  I  can't  write 
you  a  longer  letter.  I  want  to  consult  you  about 
wearing  gold  powder,  like  the  new  empress.  It 
would  kill  Mrs.  Croesus  if  you  and  I  should  be  the 
first  to  come  out  in  it ;  and  don't  you  think  the  effect 
would  be  fine,  when  we  were  dancing,  to  shower  the 
gold  mist  around  us  ?  How  it  would  sparkle  upon 
the  gentlemen's  black  coats  !  ("  Yes,"  says  Mr.  P., 
"  and  how  finely  Gauche  Boosey,  and  Timon  Croe- 
sus, and  young  Downe,  will  look  in  silk  tights  and 
small-clothes  !  ")  They  say  it's  genuine  gold  ground 
up.  I  have  already  sent  for  a  white  velvet  and  lace, 
—  the  empress's  bridal  dress,  you  know.  That  fool- 
ish old  P.  asked  me  if  I  had  sent  for  the  emperor 
and  the  bank  of  France  too. 

**  M^en  ask  such  absurd  questions  !  "  said  I. 

"  Mrs.  Potiphar,  I  never  asked  but  one  utterly 
absurd  question  in  my  life,"  said  he,  and  marched 
>ut  of  the  house. 


62  TREASURE^  TRO  VE, 

Au  revoiry  chire  Caroline.  I  have  a  thousand 
ttings  to  say;  but  I  know  you  must  be  tired  to 
d^,ath. 

Fondly  yours, 

Polly  Potiphar. 

P.S.  —  Our  little  Fred  is  quite  down  with  the 
scarlet-fever  Potiphar  says  I  mustn't  expose  my- 
self :  so  I  don't  go  into  the  room ;  but  Mrs.  JoUup, 
the  nurse,  tells  me  through  the  keyhole  how  he  is. 
Mr.  P.  sleeps  in  the  room  next  the  nursery,  so  as  not 
CO  carry  the  infection  to  me.  He  looks  very  solemn 
as  he  walks  down  town.  I  hope  it  won't  spoil  Fred's 
complexion.  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have  him  a 
Uttle  fright  1     Poor  little  thing  ! 

P.S.  2d.  —  Isn't  it  funny  about  the  music  ? 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  CARDS 
AND  WHIST. 

BY     CHARLES      LAMB. 

CLEAR  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the  rigor 
of  the  game.  This  was  the  celebrated 
wish  of  old  Sarah  Battle  (now  with  God), 
who,  next  to  her  de\otions,  loved  a  good  game  of 
whist.  She  was  none  of  your  lukewarm  gamesters, 
your  half-and-half  players,  who  have  no  objection  to 
take  a  hand,  if  you  want  one  to  make  up  a  rubber ; 
who  affirm  that  they  have  no  pleasure  in  winning  j 
that  they  like  to  win  one  game,  and  lose  another  ; 
thnf  ihey  can  while  away  an  hour  very  agreeably  at 
a  card-table,  but  are  indifferent  whether  they  play  or 
no  ;  and  will  desire  an  adversary  who  has  slipped  a 
wrong  card,  to  take  it  up  and  play  another.  Th«  sc 
insufferable  triflers  are  the  curse  of  a  table.  One  «>♦ 
these  flies  will  spoil  a  whole  pot.  .  Of  such  it  ma^ 


64  TREASURE   TROVE. 

be  said  that  they  do  not  play  at  cards,  but  only 
play  at  playing  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She  de- 
tested them,  as  I  do,  from  her  heart  and  soul, 
and  would  not,  save  upon  a  striking  emergency, 
willingly  seat  herself  at  the  same  table  with  them. 
She  loved  a  thorough-paced  partner,  a  determined 
enemy.  She  took  and  gave  no  concessions.  She 
hated  favors.  She  never  made  a  revoke,  nor  ever 
passed  it  over  in  her  adversary,  without  exacting 
the  utmost  forfeiture.  She  fought  a  good  fight  • 
cut  and  thrust.  She  held  not  her  good  sword 
(her  cards)  *Mike  a  dancer."  She  sat  bolt  upright ; 
and  neither  showed  you  her  cards  nor  desired  to 
see  yours.  All  people  have  their  blind  side,  their 
superstitions  ;  and  I  have  heard  her  declare,  under 
the  rose,  that  hearts  was  her  favorite  suit. 

I  never  in  my  life — and  I  knew  Sarah  Battle  many 
of  the  best  years  of  it — saw  her  take  out  her  snuff- 
box when  it  was  her  turn  to  play,  or  snuff  a  candle 
in  the  middle  of  a  game,  or  ring  for  a  servant  till  it 
was  fairly  over.  She  never  introduced,  or  connived 
at,  miscellaneous  conversation  during  its  progress. 
As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards  were  cards; 
and,  if  I  ever  saw  unmingled  distaste  in  her  fine  last- 


MRS.    HATTLF.    OAT  CARDS  AND    WHIST.       65 

century  countenance,  it  was  at  the  airs  ot  a  youn^ 
g-i:ntleman  of  a  literary  turn,  who  had  been  with 
ditficulty  persuaded  to  take  a  hand  ;  and  who,  in  his 
excess  of  candor,  declared  that  he  thought  there 
was  no  harm  in  unbending  the  mind  now  and  then, 
after  serious  studies,  in  recreations  of  that  kind. 
She  could  not  bear  to  have  her  noble  occupation,  to 
which  she  wound  up  her  faculties,  considered  in  that 
light.  It  was  her  business,  her  duty,  the  thing  she 
came  into  the  world  to  do  ;  and  she  did  it.  She 
unbent  her  mind  afterwards  —  over  a  book. 

Pope  was  her  favorite  author ;  his  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock,"  her  favorite  work.  She  once  did  me  the 
favor  to  play  over  with  me  (with  the  cards)  his  cele- 
b'ated  game  of  ombre  in  that  poem,  and  to  explain 
tc  me  how  far  it  agreed  with,  and  in  what  points  it 
would  be  found  to  differ  from,  tradrille.  Her  illusr 
trations  were  apposite  and  poignant ;  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  sending  the  substance  of  them  to  Mr. 
Bowles  ;  but  I  suppose  they  came  too  late  to  be 
inserted  among  his  ingenious  notes  upon  that  author. 

Quadrille,  she    has   often   told  me,  was   her  fiist 

love  ;  but  whist  had  engaged  her  maturer  esteem. 

The  former,  she  said,  was  show^'  and  specious,  and 

likely    to    allure   young   persons.     The    uncertaintji 

5 


I )  6  /  a'  E  a  o  U  k  h—  i  hiJ  t  h.. 

and  quick  shifting  of  partners,  a  thing  which 
the  constancy  of  whist  abhors  ;  the  dazzling  su- 
premacy and  regal  investiture  of  Spadille,  absurd, 
as  she  justly  observed,  in  the  pure  aristocracy  of 
whist,  \vhere  his  crown  and  garter  give  him  no 
proper  power  above  his  brother-nobility  of  the  Aces  \ 
the  giddy  vanity,  so  taking  to  the  inexperienced,  of 
playing  alone  ;  above  all,  the  overpowering  attrac- 
tions of  a  Sans  Prendre  Vole,  to  the  triumph  of 
which  there  is  certainly  nothing  parallel  or  ap- 
proaching, in  the  contingencies  of  whist,  —  all  these, 
she  would  say,  make  quadrille  a  game  of  captivation 
to  the  young  and  enthusiastic.  But  whist  was  the 
solider  game :  that  was  her  word.  It  was  a  long 
meal,  not,  like  quadrille,  a  feast  of  snatches.  One 
or  two  rubbers  might  co-extend  in  duration  with  an 
evening.  They  gave  time  to  form  rooted  friend- 
ships, to  cultivate  steady  enmities.  She  despised 
the  chance-started,  capricious,  and  ever-fluctuating 
alliances  of  the  other.  The  skirmishes  of  quadrille, 
she  would  say,  reminded  her  of  the  petty  ephemera] 
embroilments  of  the  littie  Italian  States,  depicted 
Dy  Machiavel ;  perpetually  changing  postures  and 
connections  ;  bitter  foes,  to-day,  sugared  darlings  to- 
morrow ;   kissing  and  scratching  in  a  breath  :    but 


V^■^.     HA  III  f-     OX    (Ah'DS     A  .\  / )     li'///S7\         hj 

(In:  wars  of  whist  w<;rc  comparable  to  the  long, 
sveady,  deep-rooted,  rational  antipathies  of  the  great 
French  and  English  nations. 

A  grave  simplicity  was  what  she  chiefly  admired 
in  her  favorite  game.  There  was  nothing  silly  in  it, 
like  the  nob  in  cribbage,  nothing  superfluous  ;  no 
ffushes,  that  most  irrational  of  all  pleas  that  a  rea 
onahle  being  can  set  up, — that  any  one  should 
claim  four  by  virtue  of  holding  cards  of  the  sam*/ 
mark  ■^\^^  color,  without  reference  to  the  playing  ot 
the  game,  or  the  individual  worth  or  pretensions  (<f 
the  cards  themselves  I  She  held  this  to  be  a  soK- 
cisni,  as  pitiful  an  ambition  at  cards  as  alliteration 
is  in  authorship.  She  despised  superficiality,  ar  d 
looketl  deeper  than  the  colors  ot  things.  Suits 
were  soldiers,  she  would  say,  and  must  have  a 
uniformity  of  array  to  distinguish  them  ;  but  what 
snould  we  say  to  a  foolish  squire,  who  should  chi  m 
a  merit  from  dressing  up  his  tenantry  in  red  jackt  is, 
that  never  were  to  be  marshalled,  never  to  take  titc 
field  .^  She  even  wished  that  whist  were  miic 
simple  ^han  it  is,  and,  in  my  mind,  \  uuld  ha\'i 
stripped  it  of  some  appendages,  which,  in  the  state 
of  human  frailt}',  may  be  venially  and  even  corp- 
'jicndably  allowed   of.      She  saw  no   reason  fcr  'he 


<38  TREASURE-TROVE. 

•deciding  of  the  trump  by  the  turn  of  the  card. 
Why  not  one  suit  always  trumps  ?  Why  two  colors, 
when  the  mark  of  the  suit  would  have  sufficiently 
distinguished  them  without  it  ? 

"  But  the  eye,  my  dear  madam,  is  agreeably  re- 
freshed with  the  variety.  Man  is  not  a  creature  ol 
pure  reason :  he  must  have  his  senses  delightfully 
appealed  to.  We  see  it  in  Roman  Catholic  coun- 
tries, where  the  music  and  the  paintings  draw  in 
many  to  worship,  whom  your  Quaker  spirit  of  un- 
sensualizing  would  have  kept  out.  You  yourself 
have  a  pretty  collection  of  paintings  ;  but  confess 
to  m«,  whether,  walking  in  your  gallery  at  Sandham, 
among  those  clear  Vandykes,  or  among  the  Paul 
Potters  in  the  ante-room,  you  ever  felt  your  bosom 
^low  with  an  elegant  delight  at  all  comparable  to 
that  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  experience  most 
evenings  over  a  well-arranged  assortment  of  the 
court-cards?  —  the  pretty,  antic  habits,  like  heralds 
in  a  procession  ;  the  gay,  triumph-assuring  scarlets  \ 
the  contrasting  deadly-killing  sables ;  the  '  hoar}' 
majesty  of  spades  ; '  Pam  in  all  his  glory  i 

"  All  these  might  be  dispensed  with ;  and,  with 
"their  naked  names  upon  the  drab  pasteboard,  the 
^ame  might  go  on  very  well,  pictureless.     But  the 


MRS.   BATTLE   ON  CARDS  AND    WHIST.       69 

beauty  of  cards  would  be  extinguished  forever. 
Stripped  of  all  that  is  imaginative  in  them,  they 
must  degenerate  into  mere  gambling.  Imagine  a 
dull  deal  board,  or  drum  head,  to  spread  them  on,  in- 
stead of  that  nice  verdant  carpet  (next  to  Nature^sX 
fittest  arena  for  those  courtly  combatants  to  play 
their  gallant  jousts  and  tourneys  in  1  Exchange 
those  delicately-turned  ivory  markers  (work  of 
Chinese  artist,  unconscious  of  their  symbol,  or  as 
profanely  slighting  their  true  application  as  the 
arrantest  Ephesian  journeyman  that  turned  out 
those  little  shrines  for  the  goddess),. —  exchange 
them  for  little  bits  of  leather  (our  ancestors'  moneyX 
or  chalk  and  a  slate  1 " 

The  old  lady,  with  a  smile,  confessed  the  sound- 
ness of  my  logic;  and,  to  her  approbation  of  my 
argument  on  her  favorite  topic  that  evening,  I  have 
always  fancied  myself  indebted  for  the  legacy  of  a 
curious  cribbage-board,  made  of  the  finest  Sienna 
marble,  which  her  maternal  uncle  (old  Walter  Plumer 
whom  I  have  elsewhere  celebrated)  brought  with 
him  from  Florence :  this,  and  a  trifle  of  five  hundred 
pounds,  came  to  me  at  her  death. 

The  former  bequest  (which  I  do  not  least  value) 
I  have  kept  with  religious  care  ;  though  she  herself. 


70  TREASURE-TROVE. 

to  confess  a  truth,  was  never  greatly  taken  with  crib^ 
bage.  It  was  an  essentially  vulgar  game,  I  ha^  e 
heard  her  say,  disputing  with  her  uncle,  who  was  very 
partial  to  it.  She  could  never  heartily  bring  her 
mouth  to  pronounce,  "  Go^''  or  "  Thafs  a  go"  She 
called  it  an  ungrammatical  game.  The  pegging 
teased  her.  I  once  knew  her  to  forfeit  a  rubber 
(a  five-dollar  stake)  because  she  would  not  take 
advantage  of  the  turn-up  knave,  which  would  have 
given  it  her,  but  which  she  must  have  claimed  by 
the  disgraceful  tenure  of  declaring,  "  Two  for  his 
heels."  There  is  something  extremely  genteel  in 
this  sort  of  denial.  Sarah  Battle  was  a  gentle- 
woman born. 

Piquet  she  held  the  best  game  at  the  cards  for 
two  persons,  though  she  would  ridicule  the  pedantry 
of  the  terms,  —  such  as  pique,  repique,  the  capot : 
they  savored  (she  thought)  of  affectation.  But 
games  for  two,  or  even  three,  she  never  greatly 
cared  for.  She  loved  the  quadrate,  or  square.  She 
would  argue  thus  :  Cards  are  warfare  :  the  ends  are 
gain,  with  glory.  But  cards  are  war,  in  disguise  of 
a  sport:  when  sifigle  adversaries  encounter,  the 
ends  proposed  are  too  palpable.  By  themselves,  it 
is  too  close  a  fight ;  with  spectators,  it  is  not  much 


MRS.   BATTLE  ON  CARDS  AND    WHIST.       71 

bettered.  No  looker-on  can  be  interested,  except 
for  a  bet,  and  then  it  is  a  mere  affair  of  money :  he 
cares  not  for  your  luck  sympathetically^  or  for  your 
play.  Three  are  still  worse  ,  —  a  mere  naked  war  of 
every  man  against  every  man,  as  in  cribbage,  with- 
out league  or  alliance  ;  or  a  rotation  of  petty  and 
contradictory  interests,  a  succession  of  heartless 
leagues,  and  not  much  more  hearty  infractions  of 
them,  as  in  tradille.  But  in  square  ganies  {she 
meant  whist)  all  that  is  possible  to  be  attained  in 
card-playing  is  accomplished.  There  are  the  incen- 
tives of  profit  with  honor,  common  to  every  species, 
though  the  latter  can  be  but  very  imperfectly  en- 
joyed in  those  other  games,  where  the  spectator  is 
only  feebly  a  participator.  But  the  parties  \n  whist 
are  spectators  and  principals  too.  They  are  a  thea- 
tre to  themselves  ;  and  a  looker-on  is  not  wanted. 
He  is  rather  worse  than  nothing,  and  an  imperti- 
nence. Whist  abhors  neutrality',  or  interests  beyond 
its  sphere.  You  glory  in  some  surprising  stroke  of 
skill  or  fortune,  not  because  a  cold,  or  even  an  in- 
terested bystander,  witnesses  it,  but  because  your 
t>artner  sympathizes  in  the  contingency.  You  win 
for  two.  You  triumph  for  two.  Two  are  exalted. 
Two,  agam,  are  mortified  ;  which  divides  their  dis- 


72  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

grace,  as  the  conjunction  doubles  (by  taking  off  the 
invidiousness)  your  glories.  Two  losing  to  two  are 
better  reconciled  than  one  to  one  in  that  close 
butcher^'.  The  hostile  feeling  is  weakened  by 
multiplying  the  channels.  War  becomes  a  civil 
game.  By  such  reasonings  as  these  the  old  lady 
was  accustomed  to  defend  her  favorite  pastime. 

No  inducement  could  ever  prevail  upon  her  to 
play  at  any  game,  where  chance  entered  into  the 
composition,  yj7r  nothing.  Chance,  she  would  argi^e, 
—  and  here  again,  admire  the  subtlet}'  of  her  co  n- 
clusion,  —  chance  is  nothing,  but  where  something 
else  depends  upon  it.  It  is  obvious  that  cannot  l)e 
glory.  What  rational  cause  of  exultation  could  it 
give  to  a  man  to  turn  up  size  ace  a  hundred  times 
together  by  himself  ?  or  before  spectators,  where  no 
stake  was  depending  ?  Make  a  lottery  of  a  hundred 
thousand  tickets  with  but  one  fortunate  number, 
and  what  possible  principle  of  our  nature,  except 
stupid  wonderment,  could  it  gratify  to  gain  that 
number  as  many  times  successively,  without  a  prize } 
Therefore  she  disliked  the  mixture  of  chance  in 
backgammon,  where  it  was  not  played  for  money. 
She  called  it  foolish,  and  those  people  idiots,  who 
were    taken    with    a   lucky  hit  under  such   circura- 


MRS.    BATTLE    ON  CARDS  AND    WHIST.       73 

Stances.  Games  of  pure  skill  were  as  little  to  hei 
tancy.  Played  for  a  stake,  they  were  a  mere  system 
of  over-reaching.  Played  for  glory,  they  were  a 
mere  setting  of  one  man's  wit  —  his  memory  or 
combination-faculty  rather — against  another's  ;  like 
a  mock-engagement  at  a  review,  bloodless  and  profit- 
less. She  could  not  conceive  a  game  wanting  the 
sprightly  infusion  of  chance  —  the  handsome  ex- 
cuses of  good-fortune.  Two  people  playing  at 
chess  in  a  corner  of  a  room,  whilst  whist  was  stir- 
ring in  the  centre,  would  inspire  her  with  insuffera- 
ble horror  and  ennui.  Those  well-cut  similitudes  of 
castles  and  knights,  the  imagery  of  the  board,  she 
would  argue  (and  I  think  in  this  case  justly)  were 
entirely  misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hard  head 
contests  can  in  no  instance  aiiy  with  the  fancy 
They  reject  form  and  color-  A  pencil  and  dry 
slate  (she  used  to  say)  were  the  proper  arena  for 
such  combatants. 

To  those  puny  objectors  against  cards,  as  nur- 
turing the  bad  passions,  she  would  retort,  that  man 
IS  a  gaming  animal.  He  must  be  always  trying  to 
get  the  better  in  something  or  other,  that  th's  pas- 
sion can  scarcely  be  more  safely  expended  than 
upon  a  game  at  cards  ;  that  cards  are  a  temporary 


74  TRRASURE'TROVE. 

illusion,  in  truth,  a  mere  drama ;  for  we  do  bwt 
play  at  being  mightily  concerned,  where  a  few  idle 
shillings  are  at  stake,  yet  during  the  illusion  we 
are  as  mightily  concerned  as  those  whose  stake  is 
crowns  and  kingdoms.  They  are  a  sort  of  dream- 
fighting, —  much  ado,  great  battling,  and  little  blood- 
shed, might>'  means  for  disproportioned  ends,  quite 
as  diverting,  and  a  great  deal  more  innoxious,  than 
many  of  those  more  serious  games  of  life,  which  men 
play,  without  esteeming  them  to  be  such. 

With  great  deference  to  the  old  lady's  judgment 
on  these  matters,  I  think  I  have  experienced  some 
moments  in  my  life  when  plapng  at  cards  for  noth- 
ing has  even  been  agreeable.  When  I  am  in  sick- 
ness, or  not  in  the  best  spirits,  I  sometimes  call  for 
the  cards,  and  play  a  game  at  piquet  for  love  with 
my  cousin  Bridget,  —  Bridget  Elia. 

I  grant  there  is  something  sneaking  in  it ;  but 
with  a  toothache  or  a  sprained  ankle,  when  you  are 
subdued  and  humble,  you  are  glad  to  put  up  witli 
an  inferior  spring  of  action. 

There  is  such  a  thing  in  nature,  I  am  convinced, 
as  sick  whist. 

I  grant  it  is  not  the  highest  style  of  man  —  I  depre- 
cate tjie  manes  of  Sarah  Battle — she  lives  not,  alas! 
to  whom  I  should  ap&log:ize. 


MRS.    BATTLE   ON  CARDS  AND    WHIST.       75 

At  such  times,  those  terms  which  my  old  friend 
objected  to  come  in  as  something  admissible.  I 
love  to  get  a  tierce  or  a  quatorze,  though  they  mean 
nothing.  I  am  subdued  to  an  inferior  interest 
Those  shadows  of  winning  amuse  me. 

That  last  game  I  had  with  my  sweet  cousin  (I 
capotted  her)  —  (dare  I  tell  thee  how  foolish  I  am.?) 
—  I  wished  it  might  have  lasted  forever,  though  we 
g.iined  nothing,  and  lost  nothing,  though  it  was  a 
mere  shade  of  play:  I  would  be  content  to  go  on  in 
tliat  idle  folly  forever.  The  pipkin  should  be  ever 
boiling,  that  was  to  prepare  the  gentle  lenitive  to 
my  foot,  which  Bridget  was  doomed  to  apply  after 
the  game  was  over  ;  and,  as  I  do  not  much  relish 
appliances,  there  it  should  ever  bubble.  Bridget  and 
I  should  be  ever  playing. 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION. 

BY   THOMAS    HOOD. 

Alarming  News  from  the  Country.  —  Awful  Insur- 
rection at  Stoke  Fogis.  —  The  Military  called  out. 
—  Flight  of  the  Mayor. 

E  are  concerned  to  state,  that  accounts 
were  received  in  town  at  a  late  hour  last 
night,  of  an  alarming  state  of  things  at 

Stoke  Pogis.     Nothing  private  is  yet  made  public ; 

but  report  speaks  of  very  serious  occurrences.     The 

number  of  killed  is  not  yet  known,  as  no  despatches 

have  been  received, 

FURTHER    PARTICULARS. 

Nothing  is  known  yet.  Papers  have  been  received 
down  to  the  4th  o^  November ;  but  they  are  not  up 
to  any  thing. 

76 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTIOI^.  77 

FURTHER,    FURTHER    PARTICULARS. 

(^Private  Utter.) 

It  is  scarcely  possible  for  you,  my  dear  Charles, 
to  conceive  the  difficulties  and  anarchical  manifes- 
tations of  turbulence,  which  threaten  and  disturb 
your  old  birthplace,  poor  Stoke  Pogis.  To  the 
reflecting  mind,  the  circumstances  which  hourly 
transpire  afford  ample  food  for  speculation  and 
moral  reasoning.  To  see  the  constituted  authorities 
of  a  place,  however  mistaken  or  misguided  by 
erring  benevolence,  plunging  into  a  fearful  struggle 
with  an  irritated,  infuriated,  and,  I  may  say,  armed 
populace,  is  a  sight  which  opens  a  field  for  terrified 
conjecture.  I  look  around  me  with  doubt,  agitation, 
and  dismay;  because,  whilst  I  venerate  those  to 
whom  the  sway  of  a  part  of  a  State  may  be  said  to 
be  intrusted,  I  cannot  but  yield  to  the  conviction 
that  the  abuse  of  power  must  be  felt  to  be  an  over- 
step of  authority  in  the  best  intentioned  of  the 
magistracy.  This  even  you  will  allow.  Being  on 
the  spot,  my  dear  Charles,  an  eye-witness  of  these 
fearful  scenes,  I  feel  how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to 
give  you  any  idea  of  the  prospects  which  surround 
me.     To  say  that   I   think   all   will  end  well    is  to 


TREASURE-TRO  VE. 

trespass  beyond  the  confines  of  hope ;  but,  whilst  I 

admit  that  there  is  strong  ground  for  apprehending 

the  worst,  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  the  conviction, 

that  if  firm  measures,  tempered  with  concession,  be 

resorted  to,  it  is  far  from  being  out  of  the  pale  of 

probability  that  serenity  may  be  re-established.     In 

hazarding  this  conclusion,  however,  you   must  not 

consider  me  as  at  all  forgetting  the  responsibilities 

which   attach  to   a   decidedly  formed   opinion.     O 

Charles  I  you  who  are  in  the  quiet  of  London  can 

little  dream  of  the  conflicting  elements  which  form 

the  storm  of  this  devoted  village.    I  fear  you  will  be 

wearied  with  all  these  details ;  but  I  thought,  at  this 

distance  at  which  you  are  from  me,  you  would  wish 

me  to  run  the  risk  of  wearying  you  rather  than  omit 

jiny  of  the  interesting  circumstances.     Let  Edward 

lead   this:   his   heart,  which  I  know  beats  for  the 

parish,  will  bleed  for  us. 

I  am,  &c., 

H.  J.  P. 

P.S.  —  Nothing   further    has   occurred;    but   you 
shall  hear  from  me  again  to-morrow. 

ANOTHER    ACCOUNT. 

Symptoms  of  disunion  have  for  some  time  past 
wevailed   between    the   authorities   of    Stoke   Pogis 


»;  id  a  part  of  the  inhabitants.  The  primum  mobile, 
C'»-  first  mobbing,  originated  in  an  order  of  the 
mayor's,  that  all  tavern  doors  should  shut  at  eleven. 
Many  complied,  and  shut ;  but  the  door  of  the  Ram- 
pant Lion  openly  resisted  the  order.  A  more  recent 
notice  has  produced  a  new  and  more  dangerous 
inltation  on  our  too  combustible  population.  A 
proclamation  against  Guy  Fawkes  and  fireworks  was 
understood  to  be  in  preparation,  by  command  of 
the  chief  magistrate.  If  his  worship  had  listened 
to  the  earnest  and  prudential  advice  of  the  resi  of 
the  bench,  the  obnoxious  placard  would  not  havi; 
been  issued  till  the  6th  ;  but  he  had  it  posted  up  on 
the  4th,  and  by  his  precipitation  has  plunged  Stoke 
Pogis  into  a  convulsion  that  nothing  but  Time's 
Soothing  Sirup  can  alleviate. 

FROM     ANOTHER    QUARTER. 

We  are  all  here  in  the  greatest  alarm.  A  general 
rising  of  the  inhabitants  took  place  this  morning, 
and  they  have  continued  in  a  disturbed  state  ever 
since.  Everybody  is  in  a  bustle,  and  indicating 
some  popular  movement.  Seditious  cries  are  heard. 
The  bellman  is  going  his  rounds,  and  on  repeating, 
*  God  save  the  king  I "  is  saluted  with.  "  Hang  the 


TREASUR  E-  TRO  KA. 

crier  1 "  Organized  bands  of  boys  are  going  about 
collecting  sticks,  &c.,  —  whether  for  barricades  or 
bonfires  is  not  known,  —  many  of  them  singing  the 
famous  gunpowder  hymn,  "Pray  remember,"  &c. 
These  are  features  that  remind  us  of  the  most 
inflammable  times.  Several  strangers  of  suspicious 
gentility  arrived  here  last  night,  and  privately 
engaged  a  barn :  they  are  now  busily  distributing 
handbills  amongst  the  crowd.  Surely  some  horrible 
tragedy  is  in  preparation  1 

A    LATER     "  JCOUNT. 

The  alarm  increases.  Several  families  have  taken 
flight  by  the  wagon  ;  and  the  office  of  Mr.  Stewart^ 
the  overseer,  is  besieged  by  persons  desirous  of 
being  passed  to  their  own  parish.  He  seems  em- 
barrassed and  irresolute,  and  returns  evasive  an- 
swers.    The  worst  fears  are  entertained. 

FRESH    INTELLIGENCE. 

The  cause  of  the  overseer's  hesitation  has  trans- 
pired. The  pass-cart  and  horse  have  been  lent  to  a 
tradesman,  for  a  day's  pleasure,  and  are  not  re- 
turned. Nothing  can  exceed  the  indignation  of  the 
paupers.      They  are  all  pouring  towards  the  poor 


THE  PARISH  KEVOLUTWN.  Si 

house,  headed  by  Timothy  Gubbing,  a  desperate 
drunken  character,  but  the  idol  of  the  workhouse. 
The  constables  are  retiring  before  this  formidable 
body.  The  following  notice  is  said  to  be  posted  up 
at  the  Town  hall :  "  Stick  no  Bills." 

Eln>en  o'clock. 

The  mob  have  proceeded  to  outrage.  The  poor 
poor-house  has  not  a  whole  pane  of  glass  in  its 
whole  frame.  The  magistrates,  with  Mr.  Higgin- 
bottom  at  their  head,  have  agreed  to  call  out  the 
military ;  and  he  has  sent  word  that  he  will  come  as 
soon  as  he  has  put  on  his  uniform. 

A  terrific  column  of  little  boys  has  just  run  down 
the  High  Street,  it  is  said  to  see  a  fight  at  the  Green 
Dragon.  There  is  an  immense  crowd  in  the  market- 
place. Some  of  the  leading  shop-keepers  have  had 
a  conference  with  the  mayor  ;  and  the  people  are  now 
being  informed  by  a  placard  of  the  result.  Gracious 
heaven  !  how  opposite  is  it  to  the  hopes  of  all  mod- 
erate men  1  "The  Mare  is  Hobstinate.  He  is  at 
the  Roes  and  Crown,  but  refuses  to  treat." 

Twelve  o'clock. 
The  military  has  arrived,  and  is  placed  under  his 
own  command.      He  has  marched  himself  in  a  body 


82  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

to  the  market-place,  and  is  now  drawn  up  one  deep 
in  front  of  the  pound.  The  mob  are  in  possession 
of  the  walls,  and  have  chalked  upon  them  the 
following  proclamation:  "  Stokian  Pogians,  be  firm  ! 
Stick  up  for  bonfires  I     Stand  to  your  squibs  I " 

Quarter-past  Twelve. 
Mr.Wigsby,  the   master  of  the  Free  School,  has 
declared  on  the  side  of  liberty,  and  has  obtained  an 
audience  of  the  mayor.     He  is  to  return  in  fifteen 
minutes  for  his  Worship's  decision. 

Half-past  Twelve. 
During  the  interval,  the  mayor  has  awom  in  two 
special  constables,  and  will  concede  nothing.  When 
the  excitement  of  the  mob  was  represented  to  him 
by  Mr.  Wigsby,  he  pointed  to  a  truncheon  on  a 
table,  and  answered,  "They  may  do  their  worsest." 
The  exasperation  is  awful.  The  most  frightful  cries 
are  uttered,  "  Huzza  for  Guys  1  Gubbins  forever ! 
and  no  Higginbottom ! "  The  military  has  been 
ordered  to  clear  the  streets ;  but  his  lock  is  not  flinty 
enough,  and  his  gun  refuses  to  fire  on  the  people. 

The  constables  have  just  obtained  a  slight  advan- 
tage :  they  made  a  charge  all  together,  and  almost 


THE    PANJSH  HEVOLUrrOS.  S3 

iipsct  a  Guy.  On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  way  they 
liave  been  less  successful.  Mr.  Huggins,  the  beadle, 
attempted  to  take  possession  of  an  important  street- 
post,  but  was  repulsed  by  a  boy  with  a  cracker.  At 
the  same  moment  Mr.  Blogg,  the  churchwarden, 
was  defeated  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  force  a  pas- 
sage up  a  court. 

Oiie  o'clock. 

The  military  always  dines  at  one,  and  has  re- 
treated to  the  Pig  and  Puncheon.  There  is  a  report 
that  the  head  constable  is  taken  with  all  his  staff. 

Two  o'clock. 
A  flying  watchman  has  just  informed  us  that  the 
police  are  victorious  on  all  points  ;  and  the  same  has 
b'ien  confirmed  by  a  retreating  constable.  He 
states  that  the  pound  is  full,  Gubbins  in  the  stocks, 
and  Dobbs  in  the  cage ;  that  the  whole  mob  would 
have  been  routed,  but  for  a  very  corpulent  man,  who 
rallied  them  on  running  away. 

Half- past  Three. 

The  check  sustained  by  the  mob  proves  to  have 

been  a  reverse :    the  constables    are   the   sufTerers. 

The  cage  is  chopped  to  fagots ;  we  haven't  a  pound ; 

and  the  stocks  are  rapidly  falling.     Mr.  VVigsby  has 


84  TRRASURE-TROV&, 

again  gone  to  the  mayor  with  overtures.  The  people 
demand  the  release  of  Dobbs  and  Gubbins,  and  the 
demolition  of  the  stocks,  the  pound,  and  the  cage. 
As  these  are  already  destroyed,  and  Gubbins  and 
Dobbs  are  at  large,  it  is  confidently  hoped  by  all 
moderate  men  that  his  Worship  will  accede  to  the 
terms. 

Four  o'clock. 
The  mayor  has  rejected  the  terms.  It  is  confi- 
dently affirmed,  that,  after  this  decision,  he  secretly 
ordered  a  post-chaise,  and  has  set  off  with  a  pair  of 
post-horses  as  fast  as  they  can't  gallop.  A  meeting 
of  the  principal  tradesmen  has  taken  place ;  and  the 
butcher,  the  baker^  the  grocer,  the  cheesemonger, 
and  the  publican,  have  agreed  to  compose  a  provis- 
ional government.  In  the  mean  time  the  mob  are 
loud  in  their  joy:  they  are  letting  off  squibs  and 
crackers,  and  rockets,  and  devils,  in  all  directions  ^ 
and  quiet  is  completely  restored.  We  subjoin  two 
documents,  —  one  containing  the  articles  drawn  up 
by  the  provincial  government  and  Mr.  Wigsby ;  the 
other,  the  genuine  narrative  of  a  spectator :  — 

Dear   Charles, — The    events   of   the   last   few 
hours,  since  I  closed  my  minute  narration,  are  preg- 


THK  PARISH  REVOLUTION.  Sj 

nant  with  fate  ;  and  no  words  that  I  can  utter  on 
paper  will  give  you  an  idea  of  their  interest.  Up  to 
the  hour  at  which  I  closed  my  sheet,  anxiety  regTi- 
\ated  the  movement  of  every  watchful  bosom  ;  but, 
since  then,  the  approaches  to  tranquillit}'  have  met 
with  barriers  and  interruptions.  To  the  meditative 
mind,  these  popular  paroxysms  have  their  desolating 
deductions.  Oh,  my  Charles  !  I  myself  am  almost 
sunk  into  an  Agitator  ;  so  much  do  we  take  the 
color  from  the  dye  in  which  our  reasoning  faculties 
are  steeped.  I  stop  the  press,  —  yes,  Charles, —  I 
stop  the  press  of  circumstances  to  say  that  a  dawn 
of  the  Pacific  is  gleaming  over  the  Atlantic  of  our 
disturbances  ;  and  I  am  enabled,  by  the  kindness  of 
Constable  Adams,  to  send  you  a  copy  of  the  Pre- 
liminaries, which  are  pretty  well  agreed  upon,  and 
only  wait  to  be  ratified.  I  close  my  letter  in  haste. 
That  peace  may  descend  on  the  Olive-Tree  of  Stoke 
Pogis  is  the  earnest  prayer  of,  &c. 

H.  J.  P. 

P.S.  —  Show  the  articles  to  Edward.  He  will, 
with  his  benevolence,  at  once  see  that  they  are  in- 
deed precious  articles  for  Stoke  Pogis. 


S6  TREASURE-  TRO  VE, 

CONDITIONS. 

1.  That,  for  the  future,  widows  in  Stoke  Po^is 
shall  be  allowed  their  thirds,  and  Novembers  their 
fifths. 

2.  That  the  propert}-  of  Guys  shall  be  held  invio 
lable,  and  their  persons  respected. 

3.  That  no  arson  be  allowed,  but  all  bonfires 
shall  be  burned  by  the  common  hangman. 

4.  That  every  rocket  shall  be  allowed  an  hour  to 
leave  the  place. 

5.  That  the  freedom  of  Stoke  Pogis  be  presented 
to  Madam  Hengler  in  a  cartridge-box. 

6.  That  the  militar)^  shall  not  be  called  out, 
uncalled  for. 

7.  That  the  parish  beadle,  for  the  time  being,  be 
authorized  to  stand  no  nonsense. 

8.  That  his  Majesty's  mail  be  permitted  to  pass 
on  the  night  in  question. 

9.  That  all  animosities  be  buried  in  oblivion,  at 
the  parish  expense. 

10.  That  the  ashes  of  old  bonfires  be  never  raked 
up. 

(  Waggstaff,  High  ConsiabU 
(Signed)  ^^._^^^^^ 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION,  If 

The  Narrativ  of  a  High  Whitruss  wfie  seed  every 
think  proceed  out  of  a  Back-winder  up  Fort  Pears  to 
Mrs.  Humphries. 

Oh  Mrs.  Humphris !  Littel  did  I  dram,  at  my 
Tim  of  Life,  to  see  what  is  before  me.  The  whole 
Parrish  is  throne  into  a  Pannikin  !  The  Revela- 
tions has  reached  Stock  Poggis  —  and  the  people  is 
riz  agin  the  King's  rain  and  all  the  Pours  that  be. 
All  this  Blessed  Mourning  Mrs.  Griggs  and  Me  as 
bean  sitting  abscondingly  at  the  tip-top  of  the 
Hows,  crying  for  lowness.  We  have  locked  our 
too  selves  in  the  back  Attical  Rome,  and  nothing 
can  come  up  to  our  Hanksiety.  Some  say  it  is  like 
the  Frentch  plot  —  sum  say  sumthing  moor  arter  the 
Dutch  Patten  is  on  the  car-pit,  and  if  so  we  shall  Be 
flored  like  Brussels.  Well,  I  never  did  like  them 
Brown  holland  brum  gals  1 

Our  Winder  overlooks  all  the  High  Street,  xcept 
jest  ware  Mister  Higgins  juts  out  Behind.  What  a 
prospectus!  —  All  riotism  and  hubbub. — There  is  a 
lowd  speechif)'ing  round  the  Gabble  end  of  the 
Hows.  The  Mare  is  arranging  the  Populous  from 
one  of  his  own  long  winders.  Poor  Man  !  —  for  all 
his  fine  goold  cheer,  who  wood  Sit  in  his  shews  1 

I    hobserve  Mr.  Tuder's  bauld    Hed    uncommon 


g8  TREAS  URE-  TRO  VE. 

hactiv  in  the  Mobb,  and  so  is  Mister  Wagstaif  the 
Constable,  considdering  his  rummatiz  has  only  left 
one  arm  disaffected  to  shew  his  loyalness  with.  He 
and  his  men  air  staving  the  mobbs  Heds  to  maktt 
them  suppurate.  They  are  trying  to  Custardise 
the  Ringleders.  But  as  yet  have  Captivated  No- 
boddy.  There  is  no  end  to  accidence.  Three 
unsensible  boddies  are  Carrion  over  the  way  on 
Three  Cheers,  but  weather  Naybres  or  Gyes,  is 
dubbious.  Master  Gollop,  too,  is  jest  gon  By  on 
one  of  his  Ant's  Shuters,  with  a  bunch  of  exploded 
Squibs  gone  off  in  his  Trowsirs.  It  makes  Mrs.  G. 
and  Me  tremble  like  axle  trees,  for  our  Hone  ne\-\'ies 
While  we  ware  at  the  open  winder  they  sliped  out. 
With  sich  Broils  in  the  Street  who  nose  what  Scraps 
they  may  git  into.  Mister  J.  is  gone  off  with  his 
MuskitT}'  to  militate  agin  the  mobb ;  and  I  fear 
without  any  Sand  Witches  in  his  Cartrich  Box. 
Mrs.  Griggs  is  in  the  sam  state  of  singularit}"  as 
meself.  Onely  think,  Mrs.  H.  of  two  Loan  Wiminir 
looken  Down  on  such  a  Heifervesence,  and  as 
Hignorant  as  the  Unbiggotted  Babe  of  the  state 
of  our  Husbandry  I  to  had  to  our  convexity,  the 
Botcher  has  not  Bean.  No  more  has  the  Backer 
and  we   shold  here   Nothing  if  Mr.  Higgins  hadn't 


THR  PARISH  REVOLUTION.  89 

hollowed  up  bore  Storys.  VVhiU  iiewj>  he  brakes ! 
The  wicked  Wigsby  as  refused  to  Reed  the  Riot  Ax, 
and  the  Town  Clark  is  no  Schollard  !  Isn't  that  a 
bad  Herring  I 

O  Mrs.  Humphris !  It  is  unpossible  to  throe 
ones  hies  from  one  end  of  Stock  Poggis  to  the 
other,  without  Grate  Pane.  Nothing  is  seen  but 
Wivs  asking  for  Huzbinds  —  nothing  is  heard  but 
childerin  looking  for  Farthers.  Mr.  Hatband  the 
Undertacker  as  jist  bean  squibed  and  obligated  for 
safeness  to  inter  his  own  Hows.  Mr.  Higgins 
blames  the  unflexable  Stubbleness  of  the  Mare,  and 
says  a  little  timely  concussion  on  Hearth  wood  hav 
prevented  the  Regoolator  bein  scarified  by  a  Squib 
and  runnin  agin  the  Rockit,  or  that  it  could  un 
shatter  Pore  Master  Gallop,  or  squentch  Wider 
Welshis  rix  of  Haze  witch  is  now  Flamming  and 
smocking  in  two  volumes.  The  ingins  as  been,  but 
could  not  play  for  want  of  Pips,  witch  is  too  often 
the  Case  with  Parrish  inginuity.  Wile  affares  are 
)n  this  friteful  posturs,  thank  Haven  I  have  one 
grate  comfit  Mr.  J.  is  cum  back  on  his  legs  ^rom 
Twelve  to  won  tired  in  the  extreams  with  Being 
a  Standing  Army,  and  his  Uniformity  spatter- 
dashed  all  over.  He  says  his  hone  saving  was 
only  thro'  leaving  His  retrenchments. 


90  TREASURE"  TRO  VE. 

Pore  Mr.  Griggs  has  come  in  after  his  Wif  in  a 
state  of  grate  exaggeration.  He  says  the  Boys  ha/e 
maid  a  Bone  Fire  of  his  garden  fence,  and  Pales 
upon  Pales  can't  put  it  out.  Severil  Shells  of  a 
bombastic  natur  as  been  picked  up  in  his  Back  Yard 
and  the  old  Cro's  nest  as  been  Perpetrated  rite  thro 
by  a  Rockit.  We  hav  sent  out  the  Deaf  Shopman  to 
hear  what  he  can,  and  he  says  there  is  so  Manny 
Crackers  going  he  don't  no  witch  report  to  Belive, 
but  the  Fishmongerers  has  cotched,  and  with  all  his 
stock  compleately  Guttid.  The  Brazers  next  door  is 
lickwise  in  Hashes, — but  it  is  hopped  he  ha?  assur- 
ance enough  to  cover  him  All  over.  —  They  say 
nothing  can  save  the  Dwellins  adjourning.  O  Mrs. 
H.  how  greatful  ought  J.  and  I  to  bee  that  our  hone 
Premiss  and  Proppaty  is  next  to  nothing !  The 
effex  of  the  lit  on  Bildings  is  marvulous.  The  turrit 
of  St.  Magnum  Bonum  is  quit  clear  and  you  can  tell 
wat  Time  it  is  by  the  Clock  verry  planely  only  it 
stands  ! 

The  noise  is  enough  to  drive  one  deleterious  ! 
Too  Specious  Connestabbles  is  perse^^^ng  littel  Tid- 
mash  down  the  Hi  Street,  and  sho  grate  fermness, 
but  I  tremble  for  the  Pelisse.  Peple  drops  in  wi-ii 
Mew  News  every  Momentum.    Sum  say  All  is  I,ost  -  — 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION  91 

and  the  Town  Criar  is  inissin.  Mrs.  Griggs  is  quile 
retched  at  herein  five  littel  Boys  is  throwd  off  a 
spirituous  Cob  among  the  Catherend  VVoals.  But  I 
hope  it  wants  cobbobboration.  Another  Yuth  its  sed 
has  had  his  hies  Blasted  by  sum  blowd  Gun  Pow- 
der. You  Mrs.  H.  are  Patrimonial,  and  may  supose 
h:)w  these  flying  rummers  Upsetts  a  Mothers  Sper- 
rits. 

O  Mrs.  Humphris  !  how  I  envy  you  th.it  is  net 
tossing  on  the  ragging  bellows  of  these  Flatulen: 
Times,  but  living  under  a  Mild  Dispotic  Govinmen* 
in  such  sequestrated  spots  as  Lonnon  and  Padding 
ton.  May  you  never  go  through  such  transubstan 
tiation  as  I  have  been  riting  in  1  Things  that  stood 
for  Sentries  as  bean  removed  in  a  Minuet —  and  the 
very  effigies  of  wat  was  venerabblest  is  now  burn 
ing  in  Bone  Fires.  The  Worshipfull  chair  is  empty. 
The  Mare  as  gone  off  clandestinely  with  a  pare  of 
Hossis,  and  with  out  his  diner.  They  say  he  com 
plains  that  his  Corperation  did  not  stik  to  him,  as  it 
shod  have  dun,  but  went  over  to  the  other  side. 
Pore  Sole  —  in  sich  a  case  I  don't  wunder  he  lost  his 
Stummich.  Yisterday  he  was  at  the  Summit  01 
I'our.  Them  that  hours  ago  were  emoying  parrish 
officiousness  as  been  turned  out  of  tneir    Digniris  ' 


92  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

Mr.  Barber  says  in  futer  all  the  Perukial  authoriti(  s 
«'ill  be  Wigs. 

Pray  let  me  no  wat  his  Magisty  and  the  Prim 
Minestir  think  of  Stock  Poggis's,  and  constitution 
beleeve  me  conclusively  my  deer  Mrs.  Humphris 
most  frendly  and  trully  Bridget  Jones, 


A  DAY  IN  THE  ACADEiMY. 

BY    F.    C.    BURNAND. 

|ARLY.  Very  early.  No  one  there.  Up 
the  steps  into  the  hall  Not  a  soul.  No 
one  to  take  the  money.  Perhaps  they've 
abolished  payments.  Good,  that.  So  gloomy!  I'm 
quite  depressed.  See  a  policeman.  He  reminds  me 
that  —  of  course  —  how  idiotic  !  —  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy has  gone  to  Picadilly ;  and  here  I  am  in  the  old 
Trafalgar  Square  place. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Take  a  cab  to  the  New  Acad- 
emy. 

Ah,  nice  new  place  I  Inscription  over  the  entrance 
ail  on  one  side.  Leave  my  stick,  and  take  a  cata- 
iogue.  Hate  a  catalogue!  Why  can't  they  put  the 
names  on  the  pictures,  and  charge  extra  for  entrance  ? 
I  know  that  there  used  to  be  a  north  and  a  south 
and  an  east  and  a  west  room  in  the  old  place. 


94  TREASURE-TROVE. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Make  a  plan  for  seeing  the 

rooms  in  order.     Go  back  and   buy  a   pencil.     I'll 

begin  with  the  north,  then  to  the  east,  then  to  the 

west,  and  so  on. 

The  catalogue,  on  reference  to  it,  is,  I  find,  divided 

\  into  gal!eries,  all  numbered. 

!  Happy  Thought. — Take  Number  One  first,  and 
so  on  in  order.  Where  is  Number  One  ?  I  find 
myself  opposite  214.  I  won't  look  to  see  what  it  is, 
as  I  want  to  begin  with  Number  One.  This,  I 
ascertain  by  the  catalogue,  is  Gallery  No.  IV.,  and 
the  picture  is  Landing  Herrings.  By  C.  Taylor.  Go 
into  another  gallery.  336.  The  Nurslifig  Donkey. 
A.  Hughes.  Oh  !  this  is  Gallery  No.  VI.  Retrace 
my  steps  to  another.  Let  me  see  :  think  I've  been 
here  before.  Have  I  seen  that  picture  ?  What  I 
want  is  Number  One.  What  number  is  that  ?  Oh, 
2 1 4.  Landing  LLerrings  again,  of  course.  To  anothc  r 
room.  Now,  then.  Old  men  talking.  Can't  help 
^stopping  before  this  picture,  though  I  want  to 
f  ^o  on  to  Number  One.  This  is  137.  Politicians. 
\  r.  Webster,  R.A.  Capital !  But  this  is  Galler}-  No. 
III.  People  are  crowding  in  now.  Nuisance. 
Wedged  in.  Beg  pardon.  Somebody's  elbowing 
my  back.  Big  lady  stops  the  way.  Beg  pardon. 
Thanks.      Squeeze  bv 


A   DAY  IN   THE   ACADEMY.  9 

In  another  room.  1  hope  Number  One  this  time. 
4*!9.  Soonabharr.  J.  Griffiths.  Gallery  No.  VII. 
Bother  Soonabharr  I     Try  hack  again. 

Beg  pardon  several  times  for  toes  and  elbows.  Nc 
one  begs  my  pardon.  Irritating  place  the  Roya^ 
\cademy,  when  you  can't  get  a  settled  place.  Where 
is  Number  One .?  Beg  pardon,  bow,  bend,  toes, 
elbows,  pusn,  squeeze,  and  I'm  in  another  room. 
Hot  work. 

Happy  Thought. — Watch  old  lady  in  chair. 
When  she  goes,  1  will  sit  down.  Getting  a  seat  is 
quite  a  game,  like  Puss-in-the-Comer.  She  does  go 
at  last,  and  though  elbowed,  hit,  trodden  upon, 
backed,  and  pushed,  I've  never  moved.  I  sit.  Now, 
then,  to  take  it  coolly.  Where  am  I .?  What's  that 
just  opposite  ?  Have  ^  seen  it  before  t  214.  Landing 
Herrings.  C.  Taylor.  Gallery  No.  IV.  That's  the 
third  time  I've  seen  the  picture.  f 

HAPpy  Thought.  —  To  look  out  in  catalogue  for 
what  is  Number  One.  Number  One  is  Topsy,  Wasp. 
Sailor^  and  Af aster  Turvey,  proteges  of  yarnes  Farrar 
ILsq.^  of  IngUboroiigh.  A.D.Cooper.  Wonder  what 
riat  means?  He  might  have  called  it  Topsy. 
A'opsy.  &  Co.  Funny  that.  As  I  am  being  funn'. 
all  to  myself,  I  see  two  ladies  whom  1  know,  — 
Miss  Millar  and  her  mamma. 


)  6  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Offer  mamma  a  seat,  and 
iralk  with  Miss  Millar.  Opportunity  for  artistic  con- 
7ersation.  Clever  girl,  Miss  Millar,  and  pretty 
"  Do  I  like  pictures  ?  "  Yes,  I  do,  I  answer,  with  s 
^eserv^ation  of  "  Some  —  not  all."  —  "Have  I  been 
here  before  ?  "  I've  noL  Pause.  Say,  "  It's  very 
warm,  though."  (WTiy  "  though  "  ?  Consider  "his). 
Miss  Millar,  looking  at  a  picture,  wants  to  know, 
"  Whose  that  is  .?  "  I  say,  off-hand  (one  really  ought 
^cy  know  an  artist's  style  without  referring  to  the  cata- 
logue), "  Millais."  I  add,  "  I  think."  I  refer  to 
catalogue.  It  isn't  We  both  say,  "  Very  like  him. 
though." 

Miss  Millar  observes  there  are  some  pretty  faces 
on  the  wails. 

Happy  Thought.  —  To  say,  "  Not  so  pretty  as 
those  off  it."  I  don't  say  this  at  once,  because  it 
doesn't  appear  to  me  at  the  moment  well  arranged 
as  a  compliment ;  and,  as  it  would  sound  flat  a  few 
minutes  afterwards,  I  don't  say  it  at  all.  Stupid  ol 
me !  Reserve  it.  It  will  come  in  again  for  some- 
body else,  or  for  when  Miss  Millar  gives  me  anotiier 
opportunity. 

Portrait  of  a  Lady.  —  The  opportunity,  I  think. 
"  Don't  I  admire  that  ? "  —  "  Not  so  much  as  "  —    If 


A    DAY  IN   THE   ACADEMY.  97 

I  say,  "as  you,"  it's  too  coarse,  and,  in  fact,  not 
wrapped  up  enough.  She  asks,  "  As  what  ? "  1 
refer  to  catalogue,  and  reply,  at  a  venture,  "  As 
Storey's  Sister  J'  Miss  Millar  wants  to  know  who 
she  is.  I  explain,  —  a  picture  of  ''Sister,*'  by 
G.  A.  Storey. 

We  are  opposite  428,  Sighing  his  Soul  into  his 
Lady's  Face.  Calderon.  We  both  say,  "  Beautiful  !  " 
I  say,  **  How  delightful  to  pass  a  day  like  that !  " 
Miss  Millar  thinks,  with  a  laugh,  that  it's  rather  too 
spooney.  (Don't  like  "  spooney "  to  be  used  by  a 
girl.)     "  Spooney  !  "  I  say. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Opportunity  for  quoting  a 
poetical  description  out  of  Typical  Developments, 
just  to  see  how  it  goes.  If  it  doesn't  go  witn  Miss 
Millar,  cut  it  out,  or  publisher  won't  jump.  I  sav, 
"  See  this  lovely  glade,  this  sloping  bank,  the  trees 
drooping  o'er  the  stream,  which  on  its  bosom  carries 
these  two  lovers,  who  know  no  more  of  their  future 
than  does  the  drifting  stream  on  which  they  float." 
She  observes,  "That  is  really  a  poetic  description. 
Do  you  like  rowing  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  I  do,  and  "  — 

Happy  Thcught.  —  Wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  have  a 
picnic  up  the  river  ?  Miss  Millar  says,  "  Oh,  do  I  " 
She  knows  some  girls  who  will  go.     I  reply  I  knon 


98  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

some  men  who  will  be  delighted ;  only  she  (Miss 
Millar)  must  let  me  chaperone  her  for  the  day. 
(This  with  an  arch  look :  rather  telling,  I  think  • 
couldn't  have  done  it  before  I  was  married.  Being 
married,  of  course  there's  no  harm  in  it.)  "  Oh,  yes  !  " 
she  replies,  "  of  course."  Wonder  if  she  means  what 
she  is  saying.  I  ask,  "  What  day  ?  "  and  take  out  mv 
notebook.  I  say  gently,  I  shall  look  forward  to" — 
Before  I  can  finish,  I  am  suddenly  aware  of  two  girls 
and  a  boy  (from  fourteen  downwards),  very  provin- 
cially  dressed,  rushing  at  me  with  beaming  faces  ; 
and  the  taller  of  the  girls,  crying  out  (the  three  posi- 
tively J/^<72/^ —  the  uncouth  wretches!)  "  O  Brother 
Wiggy  I "  (they  ail  say  this)  seizes  me  round  tlie 
neck,  jumps  at  me,  and  kisses  me.  The  lesser  one 
follows.  Same  performance.  I  can't  keep  them  off. 
They  are  my  wife's  youngest  sisters  and  little  brother, 
just  from  school,  whom  I  used  at  one  time  foolishly 
to  encourage.  Friddy  told  them  about  my  song  of 
the  little  pig ;  and  they  always  (as  a  matter  of  endear- 
ment) call  me,  "  Brother  Wiggy."  I  shall  write  to 
my  wife,  or  tell  her,  when  I  get  home,  that  her  family 
must  really  be  kept  quiet.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  smile, 
and  look  pleased  (every  one  is  turning  to  observe 
me,  except  Miss  Millar,  who  pretends  to  be  absorbed 


A    DAY  I.V  THE  ACADEMY. 


99 


hi  a  picture),  and  say,  "  Ah,  Betty  I  Ah,  Polly  I  How 
dy'e  do  ?  When  did  you  come  up  ?  " 

Happy  Thought.  —  When  are  you  going  back 
again  ?  Give  them  half  a  crown  to  go  to  the  refresh- 
ment-room, and  eat  buns  and  ices.  They  go.  Miss 
Millar  has  found  her  mamma,  and  gone  into  another 
room.  Hang  those  little  Sympersons  1  Somebody 
treads  on  my  toes.  I  will  not  beg  his  pardon  :  I  am 
very  angry.  Somebody  nearly  knocks  my  hat  off, 
pointing  out  a  picture  to  a  friend.  He  doesn't  beg 
niy  pardon.  Rude  people  come  to  the  Academy, 
ril  be  rude.  I'll  hit  some  one  in  the  ribs  when  I 
want  to  change  my  position.  I'll  tread  on  toes,  and 
say  nothing  about  it  Very  tall  people  oughtn't  to 
be  allowed  in  the  Academy. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Wiik  between  tall  person 
and  pictures ;  must  be  rude  at  the  Academy,  or  one 
will  never  see  any  pictures  at  all  —  at  least,  close  to. 

A  hit,  really  a  blow,  in  my  side.  I  turn  savagely. 
"  Confound  it,  sir  "  — 

It's  that  donkey  Milburd,  who  introduces  a  tall 
young  friend  as  Mr.  Dilbur)'.  "  What  picture  do  you 
particularly  want  to  see  ?  "  asks  Milburd.  I  toll  him 
Number  One.     Dilbury  will  show  me. 

"  But  first,"  says   Dilbur}-,  taking  me  by  the  arm, 


I  DO  TREASURE^  TRO  VE. 

"  Here's  rather  a  good  bit  of  color."  He  is  evidently 
a  critic,  and  walks  me  up  in  front  of  a  picture, 

"  There  !  "  says  Dilbury. 

I  refer  to  catalogue.     Oh,  of  course  — 

214.  Landing  Herrings.  C.  Taylor.  For  the 
fifth  time.     I  tell  him  I  know  it,  and  so  we  pass  on. 

Dilbur}-  takes  me  to  see  Eagles  attacked.  By  Sir 
Edwin  Landseer.  We  starnl  opposite  the  picture  in 
front  of  several  people  :  we  are  silent  Dilbury  says 
presently,  "  Fine  picture  that  1 "  I  agree  with  Dil- 
bury. Wonder  where  Sir  Edwin  was  when  he  saw 
it  I  don't  see  how  he  could  have  imagined  it, 
because,  from  what  one  knows  of  eagles  and  swans, 
it  is  about  the  last  thing  I  should  have  thought  of. 
Perhaps  it  occur^^d  to  him  as  a  Happy  Thought. 
But  what  suggested  it  ?     1  put  it  to  Dilbury. 

"The  Serpentine,  perhaps,"  Dilbury  thinks,  add- 
ing afterwards,  "and  a  walk  in  the  Zoo.'' 

Dilbur}'  tells  me  that  that  is  how  subjects  suggest 
themselves  to  him.  From  which  I  gather  that  Dil- 
bury is  an  artist  I  don't  like  to  ask  him,  "  Do  you 
paint  ? "  as  he  may  be  some  very  well-knowTi 
painter. 

He  says,  "  I'll  show  you  a  little  thing  I  think  you'll 
like.     He    takes   me   by  the   elbow,   and,  evidentlv 


A   DAY  IN   THE  ACADEMY.  .01 

knowing  the  Academy  by  heart,  bumps,  shoves,  and 
pushes  me  at  a  sharp  pace  through  the  crowd.  Dil- 
bury  has  an  awkward  way  of  stopping  one  suddenly 
in  a  sharp  walk  to  draw  one's  attention  to  something 
or  somebody  that  has  attracted  him,  —  generally,  a 
prett}'  face. 

"  I  say,"  says  he,  after  two  bumps  and  a  shove 
have  brought  us  just  into  the  doorway  of  Gallery 
No.  III.,  "  there's  a  deused  prett}'  girl,  eh  ?  " 

Before  I  have  time  to  note  which  girl  he  means,  he 
is  off  again  with  me  by  the  elbow.  Bump  to  the  right, 
shove  to  the  left,  over  somebody's  toes,  and  through 
a  knot  of  people  into  Galler}'  IV.  Stop  suddenly. 
Hey  what?  "There's  a  rum  old  bird,"  says  Dil- 
bur\',  winking  slily :  "  in  Eastern  dress  he'd  make  a 
first-rate  model  for  ray  new  picture  :  sacred  subject, 
Methusaleh  coming  of  Age  in  the  Olden  Time.  Won- 
der if  he'd  sit" 

Happy  Thought.  —  To  say  jestingly,  '*!  wish  I 
could,"  meaning  sit  down,  now. 

Dilbury  is  rejoiced.  Would  I  sit  to  him  ?  He  is 
giving  his  mind  to  sacred  subjects,  and  is  going  to 
bring  out  Balaam  and  Balak.  Would  I  give  him  a 
sitting,  say,  for  Balak  ?  Milburd  has  promised  him 
one  for  Balaam,  unless  I'd  like  to  take  Balaam.     (As 


102  TREASURE-TROVE. 

he  pronounces  this  name  Baa-lamb,  I  don't  at  &5i 
catch  his  meaning.)  I  promise  to  think  of  it  lie 
gives  me  his  address. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Have  my  portrait  taken.  Not 
as  Balaam  —  as  myself.  Settle  it  with  Dilbury.  He'll 
paint  it  this  year,  and  exhibit  it  next  Milburd,  who 
happens  to  come  upon  us  at  this  moment,  suggests 
showing  it  at  a  shilling  a  head  in  Bond  Street,  as  a 
sensation  picture. 

"  I'll  be  with  him,"  says  Milburd,  "  as  Balaam 
(you've  promised  me  that),  and  he  shall  be  the  "  — 

I  know  what  he  is  going  to  say,  and  move  off  with 
Dilbury  before  he's  finished.  Milburd  will  talk  r^o 
loud  1  He's  so  vain,  too  I  does  it  all  for  applause 
from  strangers.  I  saw  some  persons  laughing  about 
Balaam.  Hope  the  little  Sympersons  have  gone. 
As  we  are  squeezing  through  the  door,  we  come 
upon  Mrs.  and  Miss  Millar  again.  Meeting  for  the 
third  time,  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Safest  thing  to  smile,  and 
take  off  my  hat  Miss  Millar  acknowledges  it  grave 
ly.  Pity  people  can't  be  hearty.  She  might  have 
twinkled  up  and  nodded. 

Dilbury  points  out  a  picture  to  me.  A  large  one 
"  Yours  .?  "  I  ask. 


A   DAY  IN  THE  ACADEMY.  103 

Happy  Thought.  —  To  make  sure  of  this  before 
I  say  any  thing  about  it  He  nods,  yes,  and  looks 
about  to  see  whether  any  one  is  listening.  I  suppose 
he  expects,  that,  if  it  got  about  that  he  was  here,  he'd 
be  seized  and  carried  in  procession  round  the  gal- 
leries, on  the  shoulders  of  exulting  multitudes. 
However,  there  is  no  one  near  the  picture  ("which," 
h«;  complains,  "  is  very  badly  hung  "),  and,  conse- 
qiiently,  no  demonstration. 

"  Good  subject,  eh  ?  "  he  asks  me.  "  Yes,  verj," 
I  answer,  wishing  I'd  asked  him  first  what  it  was,  or 
had  referred  to  the  catalogue.  It  is  classical,  evi- 
dently ;  that  is,  judging  from  the  costume,  what  there 
is  of  it.     I  try  to  find  out  quietly  in  the  catalogue. 

Dilbury  says,  "  You  see  what  it  is,  of  course  t  " 
"  Well  —  I  —  I  —  I  in  fact,  don't "  —  that  is,  not  quite. 

"  Well,  he  replies,  in  a  tone  implpng  that  I  am 
sure  to  recognize  it  when  I  hear  it,  "  it's  Prometheus 
instituting  the  Lampadephoria."  To  which  I  say, 
'*  Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  Prometheus  vinctuSy'  and  look 
at  the  number  to  see  how  he  spells  it.  I  compliment 
him.  Yery  fine  effect  of  light  and  shade.  In  fact, 
it's  all  light  and  shade,  representing  a  lot  of  Corin- 
L^iians  (he  says  it's  in  Corinth)  running  about  with 
red  torches.     Dilbur}'  points  out  to  me  the  beauties 


of  the  picture.  He  says  it  wants  a  week's  study. 
He  informs  me  that  it  was  taken  on  the  spot,  and 
that  his  models  were  "  the  genuine  thing." 

Happy  Thought. — To  say,  "I  could  stop  and 
look  at  tliis  for  an  age,"  then  take  out  my  watch. 

"  Vou  can  come  back  again  to  it,"  observes  Dil^ 
hury,  seizing  my  elbow  again. 

Meet  Mrs.  and  Miss  Millar  again.  Awkward. 
Don't  know  whether  to  bow,  or  smile,  or  nod,  or  what, 
this  time.  I  say,  as  we  pass,  "  Not  gone  yet  ?  "  I 
don't  think  she  likes  it  I  didn't  say  it  as  I  should 
like  to  have  said  it,  if  I  had  the  opportunity  over 
again.     I  dare  say  it  soui\ded  rude. 

Dilbur}'  stops  me  suddenly  with,  ''  Pretty  face  that, 
eh  ?  "  and  looks  back  at  Miss  Millar.  Whereupon, 
I  rejoin,  "  Hush  !  I  know  them."  Dilbury  immedi- 
ately wishes  to  be  introduced.  I  will,  as  an  Academi- 
cian, and  his  picture  too.  We  go  back  after  them. 
\\'e  struggle  towards  them  :  we  are  all  jammed  up 
.n  a  crowd  together.  I  hear  sometliing  crack,  l 
become  aware  of  treading  on  somebody's  dress.  Ii 
is  Miss  Millar's.     I  beg  her  pardon.     "  1  hope  I  " — 

Happy  Thought.  —  "  We  met :  'twas  in  a  crowd.'' 
Old  song.  I  say  this  so  as  to  give  a  pleasant  turn 
to  the  apology  and  the  introduction.     I  don't  think 


Miss  Millar  is  a  ^ood-iempered  girl.  Somebody  in 
nudginp;  me  in  tJie  back,  and  somebody  else  is  wedg- 
ing nrte  in  on  either  side.  As  she  is  almost  swept 
away  from  me  by  one  current,  and  I  from  her  by 
another,  I  say  hurriedly,  **  Miss  Millar,  let  me  intro- 
duce my  friend,  Mr.  Dilbury,  an  Academician."  She 
tries  to  stop.  I  turn  and  lay  hold  of  some  one  who 
ought  to  be  Dilbury,  in  order  to  bring  him  forward 
It  isn't  Dilbury  at  all,  but  some  one  else,  —  a  perfect 
stranger,  who  is  very  angry,  and  wants  to  kick  or  hit 
—  I  don't  know  which  (but  he  can't,  on  account  of 
the  crowd),  and  I  am  carried  on,  begging  Miss  Mil- 
lar's pardon,  and  his  pardon,  and  remonstrating  with 
a  stout,  bald-headed  man  in  front,  who  will  get  in 
the  way. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Ge':  out  of  this  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

Getting  out  again.  Lost  my  catalogue.  Meet 
Milburd.  I  ask  him  what's  that  picture,  alluding  to 
one  with  a  lot  of  people  in  scant  drapery  in  an  Ori 
ental  apartment.  He  replies,  "  Portraits  of  Members 
of  the  Garrick  Club  taking  a  Turkish  Bath."  It  is 
Number  277.  It  simply  can't  be.  Besides,  there  are 
ladies  present  Milburd  pretends  to  be  annoyed, 
and  says  I  needn't  believe  it  unless  I  like. 


To6 


TREASURE-TRO  VE, 


Must  go  to  Willis's  :  see  about  sleeping  to-nigh , 
.uggage,  dinner,  and  a  lot  of  things. 

Happy  Thought.  —  Have  my  hair  cut  Have  an 
ice  first     Leave  the  Academy. 


'^ 


mmmi 


MRS.  BROWN  AT  THE  PLAY. 

BY    aXTHUR    SKKTCHLKY. 

T  is  a  good  many  years  ago  now  when  me 
and  Brown  was  a-livin'  in  the  Commercial 
Road,  leastways  Condick  Street,  as  is  a 
turnin'  ofT  it  ;  and  a  'appy  'ome  I  'ad,  as  I  never 
>*fanted  to  leave.  And  if  any  one  'ad  sed  to  me, 
•  Mrs.  Brown,  mum,  you're  a-goin'  out,"  that  evenin' 
as  I  did  go  to  the  play,  why,  I  should  'ave  took  and 
smiled  derisive ;  for  I'm  one  as  loves  my  'ome  thro' 
a-takin'  a  pride  in  it ;  and  any  one  might  eat  off 
the  boards  thro'  bein'  a  little  pallis  all  over,  as  the 
say  in'  is. 

And  if  ever  I  did  want  to  stop  at  'ome,  it  were 
that  partikler  evenin',  thro'  'avin'  a  little  bit  of  iron- 
in'  as  I  wanted  for  to  conker,  as  it  didn't  seem  as 
tho'  I  never  should,  thro'  'avin'  'ad  'em  damped  down 
in    a   little   brown   pan   over  three  days ;    and  was 

107 


1 08  TREASURE-  TRO  VR, 

a -iayin'  to  myself  as  them  things  must  be  ironed  ap 
afore  Brown  comes  in,  or  miljews  is  the  conse 
quence,  thro'  bein*  cuffs  and  collars  as  was  worn 
large  that  time.  And  I'm  one  of  them  as  can't 
abear  no  dabwashes  about  the  place :  so  in  course, 
as  a  good  wife's  doot}^  is,  I  never  thinks  of  such  a 
thing;  and  'ad  jest  been  and  unrolled  'em  with  the 
irons  down,  when  in  who  should  come  but  Brown 
'isself. 

"  Law  1 "  I  says,  "  Brown,  what  a  turn  you  give 
me  I  Why,  wotever  wind's  blowed  you  'ome,"  full  a 
'our  before  'is  reg'lar  time,  as  did  used  to  be  the 
closin'  of  the  Docks. 

He  says,  "  No  wind  at  all,  old  gal,  but  am  come 
'ome  for  you,  as  we're  agoin'  out  on  a  reg'lar 
spree." 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  I'd  thank  you  for  to  recollect 
as  you're  a-talkin'  to  a  lady,  and  one  as  do  not  'old 
with  them  low-lived  sprees,  thro'  bein'  brought  up 
serous ; "  and  kep'  on  with  my  ironin'. 

"  Oh  1 "  he  says,  "  it's  all  right,  old  gal :  we're  only 
agoin'  to  the  play." 

I  says,  "No,  I  thank  you,  Brown,  none  of  your 
plays  for  me."  For,  bless  you  I  I  'adn't  been  at  a 
play  since  a  mere  gal,  as  a  aunt  of  mine  took.      And 


SfRS.    BROWN  AT   THE   PLAY.  109 

irerry  lovely  it  certingly  were  ;  for  a  dark-colored 
forriner  set  crossed-legged  like  a  tailor,  with  a  turbot 
ou  'is  'ead,  a-shyin'  cheyney  orringes  round  it  afore 
a  lookin'-glass,  as  were  called  Rammer  Sammy ;  and 
a  lady  as  were  all  blue  and  spangles,  she  rolled  a 
gold  cat's-meat  barrer  up  a  rope  full  of  fireworks  as 
went  off  with  a  bang  at  the  end ;  and  I  remember 
as  they  did  say  as  they  were  a  Italian  royal  family. 
And  a  beautiful  play  it  were  —  not  as  I  knows  who 
'rote  it,  as  in  course  don't  signify,  thro'  bein'  most 
likely  French,  as  is  the  only  ones  as  can  write  plays. 

"  Oh  1 "  says  Brown,  "  you'd  better  come  ;  for  it'll 
be  a  reg'lar  treat,  and  I've  got  a  border."  And  he 
pulls  out  of  'is  wenscot  pocket  a  little  bit  of  a  yaller 
ticket. 

So  I  says,  "  In  my  opinion,  at  your  time  of  life, 
Mr.  Brown,  you  might  be  a-spendin'  of  your  money 
over  somethink  better  than  borders  for  plays." 

"  Law,"  he  says,  "  I  ain't  spent  no  money  over  it ; 
but  the  party  where  I  buys  my  'baccy,  close  ag'in 
the  Commercial  Road,  as  puts  out  the  bills  for  the 
playhactors,  he  give  it  me  gracious  free  for  nothink." 

"Well,  then,"  I  says,  " 'owever's  them  poor  play- 
hactors to  get  a  bit  of  bread,  if  every  one  goes  in 
for  nothink  ? " 


T  T  o  TREASURE-TRO  VR, 

"  Oh  I  "  says  Brown,  "  the5r're  used  to  it ;  besides, 
It  keeps  them  in  practice." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "  I  don't  think  as  I  cares  much 
about  it,  thank  you  all  the  same  ; "  and  keeps  on 
with  my  ironin'. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "you  needn't  go  if  you  don't 
like  ;  only  I  can  tell  you  as  I  could  easy  find  thou- 
sands as  would  jump  at  it." 

I  says,  "No,  Brown,"  and  looks  at  'im  steady. 
"  I  am  your  lawful  wife,  and  where  you  leads  is  my 
duty  to  foller ;  and  my  duty  I'll  do,  if  I  drops  at  it ; 
for  I  do  not  'old  with  you  agoin'  out  like  pro- 
miscous." 

He  says,  "  Right  you  are  for  to  come,  as'll  be  a 
teg'lar  treat ;  for  it's  for  the  Queen  Wictoria's  werry 
own  theayter." 

I  says,  "  Whyever  didn't  you  tell  me  that  afore,  ^s 
makes  all  the  difference  ?  For,  in  course,  if  it's  good 
enuf  for  'er,  it's  good  enuf  for  me,  as  am  not  agoin' 
to  look  down  upon  any  think  as  belongs  to  Queen 
VVictoria." 

"  Well,"  says  Brown,  "  if  you're  agoin',  go,  and 
look  slippy,  and  toss  on  your  rags." 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  if  that's  your  low-lived  ways 
a-talkin'  about  a  lady's  twilight,  as  is  a  thing  you  did 


Mf!S.    hi<OWN  AT  THE  PLAY,  in 

ought  to  respect,  none  of  your  plays  for  me  ;"  and  i 
keeps  on  a-ironin'. 

"  Oh,  bother  1  "  says  Brown,  "  I  can't  keep  on 
9-arglin'  the  pint  with  you ;  for  I  must  give  myself  a 
bit  of  a  rense  in  the  back-washus,  and'll  brew  the 
tea  while  you're  a-dressin' ; "  and  were  thro'  the 
washus  door  like  a  whirlwind,  as  is  jest  like  'is  erra- 
table  temperature. 

Well,  when  he  were  gone,  I  says  to  myself,  "  It's 
a  poor  'art  as  never  rejoices  ; "  and  pre'aps  if  it's  'is 
wish,  I  did  ought  for  to  go.  So  I  rolls  up  that  bit 
of  ironin',  and  goes  up  stairs  for  to  tidy  myself  up 
a  bit ;  for,  I  says,  if  I  am  agoin'  out  with  'im,  he 
sha'n't  be  ashamed  of  me,  as  will  dress  myself  that 
helegant,  as  is  a  wife's  duty,  in  my  opinion,  agoin' 
out  along  with  a  usband.  And  tho'  not  a  woman 
give  to  dress,  am  one  as,  when  dressed,  tho'  I  says 
it  as  didn't 'ought  to,  looks  noble,  thro'  bein' one 
of  them  fine  full  figgers  as  shows  off  what  you 
wears. 

I  certingly  did  dress  myself  lovely  that  artemo^n, 
thro'  a-puttin'  on  a  lovely  gownd  as  I'd  'ad  by  me  for 
years,  —  a  Norwich  crape  with  a  satin  front,  as  one 
time  was  werry  much  wore,  and  were  one  of  my  dear 
mother's,  but  made  to  fasten  in  front,  the  same  m 


1 1 2  TRRA  S URE-  TRO  VE. 

they  wears  *em  now ;  but,  thro'  bein'  short  in  the 
waist,  required  a  good  deal  of  pins  and  coaxing  tor 
to  make  it  set  proper  to  the  figger,  but,  with  a  broad 
watered  waist-ribbin  and  a  steel  buckle,  looked  werry 
becomin',  I  do  assure  you. 

It  certingly  might  'ave  been  a  little  fuller  in  the 
skirts,  not  as  I  could  espect  it  not  to  be  a  little 
scant}',  thro'  'avin'  took  out  a  breadth  for  to  make  a 
new  back  ;  for  match  it  all  over  London,  I  couldn't, 
were  it  ever  so. 

Then  I  put  on  a  lovely  shawl  as  I've  got,  as 
looked  werr}'  beautiful,  thro'  bein*  a  Chinee  crape, 
as  I  know'd  were  real  Chinee,  thro'  bein'  brought  me 
from  them  parts  by  my  own  godfather,  as  were  in 
the  seafarin'  perswashun,  and  met  a  watery  grave  off 
the  coast  of  Bumbay,  so  in  course  never  looks  at  it 
without  a  feelin'  of  melancholy  a-thinkin'  on  'im, 
poor  feller !  and  never  wears  escept  when  agoin'  out 
pleasurin'  somewheres  partickler. 

And  then  I  put  on  my  bonnet,  as  were  a  lovely 
Leghorn  as  belonged  to  a  lady  where  I  did  used  to 
live,  as  I've  'ad  by  me  for  years,  and  were  the  hight 
of  fashion,  tho'  large  in  the  crown,  as  makes  it 
roomy  for  the  'ead,  and  cooler ;  and  lined  and  trimmed 
with   a  dark  green,  as  is  werr}'  becomin,'  thro'  me 


MRS.    BROWI^  AT   THE   PLAY.  173 

bem'  k  fair  complexion,  with  my  'air  kep'  steady 
thi'o'  a  welwet  band  twice  round  my  'ead,  and  a 
brooch  on  the  forehead  as  looked  noble,  with  a 
bunch  of  red  on  one  side,  and  blue  on  the  other,  for 
a  bonnet-cap,  as  set  one  another  off. 

Then  I  put  on  a  bit  of  a  frill  for  to  finish  off  my 
Chinee  crape,  with  a  string  of  carnelian  beads  and 
a  gilt  clasp,  'cos  I  always  thinks  as  a  little  jewelry 
does  light  you  up  so. 

And  then  I  put  on  a  pair  of  new  pruneller  boots. 
Oh,  them  boots  !  afore  the  night  were  out,  my  suf- 
frages along  of  them  boots  is  more  than  'uman  tung^s 
can  think  on.  Not  as  I've  got  a  large  foot,  but 
quite  different,  tho'  one  of  them  feet  as  is  'ard  for 
fit,  thro'  bein'  between  the  sizes,  and  requirin'  a  deal 
of  room  in  the  tread.  Thro'  the  sowin'  a-ketchm'  me 
across  the  jinte,  where  the  pruneller  jines  on  the 
patten-leather,  I  was  in  hagonies  all  that  night  long. 

Wherever  that  young  man  at  the  shoe-shop  can 
'ope  to  go  to  as  perswaded  me  to  'ave  'em,  a-saymg 
as  side-springs  was  easy  wearin',  I  can't  think  ;  lor 
they  was  a-clutchin'  me  round  the  ancles  like  wices 
all  night,  and  seemed  to  be  a-forcin'  all  my  blood 
into  my  heyeballs. 

I  shouldn't  'ave  wore  them  boots,  but  for  Brown, 


IT4  TREASURE-TROVE. 

tor  my  'art  misgive  me  when  I  slipped  'em  on  ;  but  he 
was  agoin'  on  like  tigers  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
a-sayin'  as  the  tea  were  drawed  to  death,  and  we 
should  be  late,  as  thro  wed  me  into  that  fluster  as  I 
'adn't  'ardly  time  for  to  get  my  umbreller  and  redi- 
cule,  with  a  pair  of  beaver  gloves,  as  is  things  I 
never  goes  out  without,  thro'  a-likin'  to  look  the  ladv 
from  top  to  toe,  as  tne  saym'  is ;  and  'urries  down 
stairs,  a-forgettin*  all  about  them  soles  of  them  boots 
bein'  that  slippy,  and  never  stopped  to  scratch  'em. 
nor  nothink  proper,  and  come  with  a  run  from 
the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom,  pitched  on  to 
the  door-mat  like  a  earthquake,  and  busted  into  the 
parlor  like  thunder. 

There  set  Brown  as  cool  as  a  lettice,  a-finishin'  of 
'is  tea,  readin'  last  week's  paper,  and  dewourin' 
water-creases  in  'is  shirt-sleeves,  and  took  no  moi 
notice  of  me  than  if  a  dog  'ad  fell  in  the  place. 

So  I  says,  "  Well,"  I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  if  I  was 
gentleman,   and   a  lady  was  to  pitch  into  a  rooi 
where  I  were  a-settin*,  if  I  didn't  come  to  pick  'ei 
up,  I  should  say,  '  Did  you  'urt  yourself? '  or  som( 
think,  and  not  set  there  a-readin'  of  them   rubbish] 
old  papers,  as  I'm  sure  you  gets  no  good  out  on  :'j 
for  he  always  were  given  to  them  papers  a  deal  toe 


liHS.   BROWN  AT  THE  PLAY.  115 

Diuch  in  my  opinion,  as  'ave  frightful  things  in  'em  ; 
for  it  ain't  many  months  ago  as  he  read  out  of  one 
on  'em  to  me,  as  there  were  a  bishop  as  didn't 
believe  in  Noah's  ark. 

Then  I  says,  "  More  shame  for  'im  I  as  only  shows 
'is  hignorance  ; "  for  I  knows  that's  true,  tho'  'avin' 
one  myself  when  quite  a  child  ;  and  nicely  I  caught  it 
for  my  little  brother  a-swallerin'  the  black-beedle,  as 
were  as  broad  across  the  back  as  the  helefant,  tho' 
no  fault  of  mine,  and  pretty  nigh  the  death  of  'im. 

Well,  Brown  he  look  up  from  'is  paper,  and  says, 
"What,  are  you  there?  Why,  halloo!  wot  a  swell 
you  are  1  any  one  would  think  as  we'd  been  married 
this  mornin'," 

I  says,  "Mr.  Brown,  I'd  thank  you  not  to  take  no 
liberties,  'cos  I  don't  'old  with  no  free  ways,"  as 
Brown  is  apt  to  give  in  to. 

He  says,  "  All  right,  old  gal :  take  your  tea,  and 
ave'  a  crease,  as'll  cool  you." 

I  says,  "  No,  thank  you,  none  of  your  creases  for 
me :  wegetables  is  all  werry  well  in  their  way,  but 
don't  suit  me  along  with  tea ; "  and  I  set  there 
a-sippin'  my  tea  as  seemed  to  go  in  me  like. 

So  I  puts  down  the  cup,  and  says  I  to  Brown, 
a-lookin'  at  'im  steady,  "  If  I'm  to  go  out  this  night, 


Il6  rh'hASL'kh.~T/KOih. 

as  is  quite  immaterul  to  me,"  I  says,  "I  must  'ave 
the  least  as  is,  if  only  a  thimbleful  atop  of  this  tea 
to  pre  went  it's  a-ranklin'  in  my  constitution." 

He  says,  "  All  right,  old  gal,  I  knows  your  little 
game;"  and  pulls  out  of  is'  coat-pocket,  as  were 
'angin'  behind  'is  chair,  a  little  flat  bottle  as  he'd 
been  and  got  filled  with  the  best  Jamaica,  as  is  a 
thing  I  can  take,  tho'  werry  few  things  as  ever  I  do  ; 
and,  when  I'd  'ad  three  cups  with  just  a  dash  in  'em, 
I  says,  "  Brown,  I'm  agreeable." 

He  says,  "  All  right,  let's  start :  we  can  lock  the 
door,  and  leave  the  key  witli  the  neighbors." 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  I'm  not  agoin'  to  be  treated 
like  a  siphon  in  my  own  'ouse,  and  not  'agoin'  to 
stoop  to  them  neighbors  on  the  right,  and  I  considers 
a  stuck-up  objec' ;  and  as  to  the  left,  'er  langwidge 
in  licker  is  enuf  to  make  the'  uman  'air  tie  up  in 
knots.     I  takes  that  key,  or  I  don't  go." 

"  Oh  !  "  says  he,  "  bother  the  key !  'ang  it  round 
your  neck,  for  all  I  cares." 

That's  Brown  all  over,  that  is:  open  yo'ir  mouth, 
and  he's  down  your  throat 

So  I  puts  the  key  in  my  redicule,  and  oil  we  sets  ; 
ami  of  all  the  'eat  as  ever  I  felt,  it  were  jest  like 
a-breathin'  a  red-'ot  oven.    And  when  we  gets  to  the 


AfRS.    BROWN  AT    Tf/E   PLAY.  iij 

corner  of  our  street,  as  is  the  Catherine  Wheel,  a 
werry  respectable  'ouse,  I  says,  "  Brown,"  I  says, 
*  this  little  flat  bottle,"  for  I'd  got  it  in  my  redicule, 
'  feels  a  deal  lighter  than  wot  1  like  it  to  feel  when 
we're  agoin'  out  for  the  'ole  evenin',  as  there's  no 
tellin'  wot  may  'appen." 

He  says,  "  Come  on,  then  ;  let's  'ave  it  filled  up." 
And  into  the  Catherine  Wheel  we  goes,  as  Mrs.  Parker 
as  keeps  it  in  'er  widders  weeds  at  the  bar  says  the 
moment  she  sees  me,  "  Mrs.  Brown,  mum,  you  looks 
flustered,  and  did  ought  to  'ave  the  least  as  is." 

"  Well,"  I  says,  "  I  do  feel  werry  all-overish  thro' 
bein'  put  out  and  'urricd  in  my  tea  :  so,  pre'aps,  it  is 
my  doot}'  to."  And  the  drop  as  1  took  seemed  to  do 
me  good ;  and  I  says,  "  I'll  trouble  you,  Mrs.  Parker, 
for  'arf  one  of  'em  pork-pies,  and  three  of  them  'art 
cakes,"  as  were  under  a  glass  case  at  the  bar  ;  for,  I 
says,  "  I  feel  as  I  may  require  refreshments  afore  the 
night  is  out." 

She  says,  "  Right  you  are  in  'avin'  them  refresh- 
ments ;  for,"  she  says,  "  I've  knowed  parties  as  'ave 
brought  on  serous  illnesses,  and  took  to  their  beds 
for  months,  thro'  a-settin'  so  long  in  them  public 
places  on  their  empt}'  stomicks."  So  I  puts  the 
things  in  my  redicule,  and  otT  we  started. 


Il8  Th'E.'.  -/.To'/v. 

But,  law  blesi  you  !  Uiere  ain't  no  pleasure  in  goi  K 
out  along  with  Brown,  as  is,  for  all  the  world,  lil« 
goin'  out  along  with  a  child,  as  will  keep  a-walkin'  en 
ahead  of  you,  a-shufflin'  of  'is  feet,  and  'olerin,' 
"  Come  on,"  over  'is  shoulder. 

If  there  is  any  think  as  do  aggrawate  me  in  this 
world,  it's  to  be  told  to  come  on  when  I'm  adoin'  my 
uttermost  to  :  so  I  'oilers  arter  'im,  "  Brown  1  " 
Ke  says,  "  What  are  you  a-'owlin'  at?" 
I   says,  "  I   ain't   a-'owlin',    Mr.  Brown  ;  but  I'm 
a-graspin'  for  breath,  for  you're  a-stranglin'  me  with 
your  dust,  as  I've  been  and  swallered  cart  loads-on." 
Well,  he  pulls  up  at  them  w^ords,  and  says,  "  Then 
the  best  thing  as  you  can  take  is  a  little  shandy-gaff 
for  to  wash  it  down,"  and  a  werry^  nice  drink   too, 
bein'  ginger-beer  with  a  little  somethink  in  it  for  to 
correct  the  ginger. 

Arter  that,  we  got  on  pretty  well,  till  we  was  in  the 
middle  of  Tower  '111,  where  I  fust  began  to  feel  my 
feet;  for  tliere  came  a  pain  thro'  my  right  boot  like 
a  flash  of  lightnin'. 

So  I  says,  "  Brown,  wherever  are  we  agoin'  to  ? " 
He  says,  "  Over  the  water  to  Charley." 
I  says,  "  Then  I   'opes  as  Charley  ain't  fur  over 
the  water,  or  he  won't  see  much  of  me  to-night" 


MRS.    RKO  WN  A  T  THE  PL  A  Y. 


iig 


He  only  sa)'s,  "  Come  on,"  'uffy  like. 

I  were  a-'obblin'  all  along  Terns  Street ;  and  at 
last  I  stops  and  says,  '*  Ikown,  1  m  jst  rest ;  for  I'm 
a-<1ioppin',  and  as  'ot  as  a  cook." 

Then  he  says,  "  The  best  thing  as  you  can  take 
will  be  'arf  a  pint  of  mild  ale  with  jest  a  dash  of 
sperrits  in  it,  for  fear  as  the  cold  should  strike  to 
you  suddin." 

I  do  think  as  that  drop  of  ale  saved  my  life,  that 
r  do. 

Arter  that,  we  got  on  pretty  well  to  the  middle  of  a 
bridge,  when  Brown  he  says  to  me,  "  You're  all  right 
now,  old  gal  ;  for  here's  the  river,  and  here's  the 
bridge." 

I  says,  "  Wotever  river  is  it,  for  goodness'  sake  ? " 

"  Oh,"  says  he,  "  Blackfriars,  in  course." 

I  says,  "  Oh,  indeed  I "  for  I  goes  so  seldom  to  the 
West  End  as  I  don't  know  much  about  them  fashion- 
able parts. 

But  when  we'd  got  over  that  bridge  into  what  they 
calls  the  Blackfriars  Road,  I  never  did  1  They  may 
well  call  it  friars ;  for  of  all  tlie  'eat !  I  were  pretty 
nigh  cooked ;  for  the  sun  were  a-settin'  in  the  small 
of  my  back  all  down  that  road. 

At  last  I  gets  to  a  post  as  I  puts  my  back  ag*iB 


120  TREASURE^TROVE. 

firm ,  and  I  says,  "  Brown,  if  I  were  a'  are  'unted  by 
the  'ounds,  I  couldn't  go  a  step  hirder  without  thai 
nutriment  as  is  necessary  for  me." 

That  stops  'ira  short ;  and  he  turns  round,  and 
says,  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  old  gal,  if  you  goes  on 
like  this,  I'm  blessed  if  you  won't  be  tight." 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  'ow  you  can  bring  your  mind 
to  say  them  insultin'  things  to  a  lady,  I  can't  think, 
as  'ave  only  took  sips  to  your  drafts." 

He  only  give  a  increjulous  whistle  like,  and  shoves 
open  the  door  of  a  ma'oganny  wine  waults,  and  in 
we  goes. 

There  was  a  werry  nice  young  lady  a-standin'  the  re 
at  the  bar,  as  no  sooner  set  eyes  on  me  than  she 
says,  "  Oh,  mum !  do  step  in  the  back-parlor,  and 
set  yourself  to-rights  a  bit;  for  you  are  that  a\^iul 
blowed  about  as  never  was." 

It's  well  as  I  did  step  into  that  parlor ;  for  of  all 
the  figgers  as  ever  I  see,  there  never  wasn't  one  like 
me,  with  my  bonnet  'arf  off  my  head,  and  my  black 
welwet  had  slipped,  and  all  my  'air  gone  into  the 
crown  of  my  bonnet,  as  there  wasn't  a  westment  on 
it  wisible,  with  my  bonnet-cap  ail  of  a  bunch  under 
my  chin,  and  my  shawl,  and  my  frill  ail  over  my  left 
shoulder. 


MA'S.    HNOWN  AT    THE    FLAY  121 

However  Brown  could  let  me  walk  such  a  fig^ei 
without  a-tellin'  me,  I  can't  think  ;  but  that's  the  wust 
of  Brown  :  he's  one  of  them  'usban's  as  don't  take 
no  proper  pride  in  their  wives. 

When  I'd  set  myself  to  rights  a  bit,  I  comes  out 
ag'in  ;  and  that  young  lady  says,  "  Ah,  mum  I  now 
you're  somethink  like,  and,  if  you  was  my  ma,  I  know 
wot  I'd  make  you  'ave  this  very  instant." 

I  says,  "  Wotever's  that,  ray  dear  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  says,  "the  least  as  is,  in  a  little  cold 
water,  for  to  refresh  you." 

I  says,  "  It  is  not  my  'abits  for  to  take  them  sper- 
ritual  things,  but  pre'aps  a  duty  thro'  bein'  that 
fainty ;  but,"  I  says,  "  wotever  you  do,  my  dear,  deal 
gentle  with  the  water,  for,  if  there  is  a  thing  as  I'm 
afraid  on  in  this  world,  it's  water." 

Well,  that  little  drop  seemed  for  to  pick  me  up 
like,  as  the  sayin'  is ;  and  off  we  started  when  Brown 
'ad  took  'is  glass  of  ale,  but  'adn't  gone  fur,  when  my 
feet  begun  to  tune  up  ag'in,  and  my  right  'and  boot 
were  a  ragin'  maniac  for  pain. 

So  I  says,  "  Brown,  if  this  'ere  theayter  of  yourn 
is  much  furder,  I'd  rather  set  'ere  on  the  kerb-stone, 
and  wait  for  you  to  come  back,  if  it  was  all  night 
long." 


r  2  2  THE  A  S  UR  E-  TR  O  VE. 

"  Why,"  he  says,  "  it's  only  jest  round  the  cormr, 
as  is  the  fust  tumin'  to  the  right." 

So  on  we  went,  me  a-'obblin'  thro'  a  lot  of 
brokers'  shops,  and  pickled  eels,  and  all  other  sorts 
of  wegetables,  as  was  esposed  for  sale,  as  the  sayin' 
is,  along  with  whelks,  as  is  things  I  don't  'old  with ; 
till  Brown  says,  "  There  you  are,  old  gal :  that's 
Queen  Wictoria's  werry  own  theayter  oppersite." 

I  says,  "  Oh,  indeed  I  Well,  then,"  I  says,  "  if  I 
was  Queen  Wictoria,  give  me  a  better  ;  for  I  con- 
siders it  rayther  a  ramshackle  place  for  a  queen  to 
go  to  constant" 

"Oh,"  says  Brown,  "you're  always  a-growlin'. 
The  outside  of  a  theayter  ain't  nothink  :  it's  the 
inside  as  is  that  awful  grand :  so  come  on." 

We  crosses  that  road,  and  goes  into  the  entrance 
to  that  theayter,  as  were  for  all  the  world  like  a 
passage  agoin'  into  a  cellar,  with  a  gaslight  a-flarin' 
out,  for  all  the  world  like  a  butcher's  shop  of  a 
Saturday  night,  as  bulged  out  that  sudden,  jest  as  I 
wrere  a-passin'  it,  and  scorched  my  'air  all  up  into 
lumps,  and  it's  a  mussy  as  I  were  not  reduced  to  a 
fiery  grave,  as  the  sayin'  is. 

When  we  got  to  the  end  of  that  passage,  as  were 
1    door,  there    were    a    werry  nice    old   gentleman 


MRS.   BROWN  AT   THE  PLAY.  123 

a-standin'  there,  a  fatherly  old  man,  as  was  a-^atin' 
of  f>ennywinkJes  out  of  'is  pocket-'ankercher,  as  no 
sooner  set  eyes  on  me  than  he  says,  "  Elscuse  me, 
mum,  but  you  looks  fatigued,  and,  if  you'll  take  and 
rest  your  back  ag'in  the  wall,  you'll  find  as  it  will 
rest  you  wonderful." 

It  were  good  adwice  as  he  give  me,  and  well 
meant,  no  doubt ;  but  I  shall  never,  in  this  world, 
get  the  green  paint  and  whitewash  out  of  my  Chinee 
crape  shawl,  'as  'ave  reg'lar  spilte  it." 

I  don't  think  as  ever  I  did,  and  'opes  I  never 
ag'in  shall,  feel  so  dreadful  knocked  up,  and  should 
'ave  give  way  altogether,  if  I  'adn't  kep'  a-leanin'  all 
my  weight  on  my  umbreller  for  to  support  myself, 
when  that  old  gent  with  the  winkles  says,  arter  a  bit, 
"  Escuse  me,  mum  ;  but,  if  it  don't  make  no  differ 
ence  to  you,  would  you  mind  a-takin'  of  your  um 
breller  off  my  foot  for  a  bit,  as  is  my  tender  pint  t  " 

I  says,  "With  pleasure,  sir;  and  'opes  as  you'll 
escuse  me  thro'  'avin'  of  a  dreadful  sinkin'  come 
on." 

Well,  jest  then  I  looks  round  ;  and  if  there  weren't 
Brown  a-drinkin'  out  of  the  bottle  !  So  I  says, 
"  Brown,"  I  says,  "wotever  you  do,  don't  give  in  to 
them  wulgar  'abits,  but  jest  put  your  'and  into  my 


r  2  4  TREASURE-  TRO  VR. 

redicule,  and  you'll  find  at  the  bottom  a  little  heg^ 
cup  without  a  foot,  as  is  a  thing  I  never  goes  oirt 
without;  for  I  can't  abear  to  lift  a  bottle  to  my 
mouth,  as  looks  so  wulgar  in  a  lady." 

So  he  says,  "  All  right,  'ave  a  drain,"  as  I  took 
jest  for  to  keep  the  life  in  me,  as  the  sayin'  as. 

Several  parties  'ad  come  in  meanwhile,  as  stood 
there  a-waitin',  partickler  one  boy  as  kep'  on 
a-crackin'  nuts,  and  starin'  at  me,  and  bustin'  out 
a-larfin'  :  in  course  I  didn't  take  no  notice,  a-knowin' 
as  boys  will  be  boys,  as  always  was  noosances,  and 
always  will  be,  tho',  if  he'd  been  a  boy  of  mine,  I'd 
'ave  stopped  them  nuts,  as  was  a  deal  more  than 
was  good  for  'im. 

Well,  there  we  kep'  on,  a-waitin'  and  a-waitin', 
and  parties  a-comin'  in :  so  I  says,  "  Dear  me,  what 
a  crowd ! " 

"Yes,"  says  a  lady,  as  'ad  come  in  with  a  babby 
in  'er  arms  :  "  it's  a  benefit." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "it  ain't  much  of  a  benefit  for  me; 
for  parties  is  a-weighin'  dreadful  'eavy  on  me,  and 
a-makin'  thoro 'fares  of  my  feet  as  is  hagonies." 

"Ah!  "  she  says,  "you  ain't  used  to  these  places." 

"No,  mum,"  I  says:  "I  am  not." 

"Ahl"  she  says,  "I  knowed  that  the  moment   I 


MRS.    f^ROlVX   AT    TUP.    rl.AY.  125 

Mit  eyes  on  you,  by  the  way  as  you're  'oldin'  of  your 
iKons,  as  is  'ighly  dangerous." 

I  says,  "  Wotever  do  you  mean  ?  " 

She  says,  "  Oh !  you  mustn't  'old  'em  a-kimbo 
'ike  that,  when  the  rush  comes,  but  straight  down 
by  your  sides,  or  else  you  might  be  served  like  the 
;Ady  were  as  lodged  in  the  'ouse  along  with  me, 
agoin'  to  see  Mazeppa  at  Ashley's  three  year  last 
Whitsuntide,  and  'ad  both  of  'em  broke  short  oflE." 

I  says  to  Brown,  "  'Owever  could  you  bring  me 
to  sich  a  awful  dangerous  place  ? " 

All  he  says  was,  "  'Old  your  row,  you  old  fool !  " 

In  course  that  boy  with  the  nuts,  he  bust  out 
a-larfm'  at  them  words,  as  were  Brown's  fault  for 
incouragin'  of  'is  impidence :  so  I  didn't  take  no 
notice,  but  kep'  a-standin',  fust  on  one  foot,  and  then 
on  the  other,  for  to  get  a  little  ease. 

Well,  all  the  time  parties  kep'  a-comin'  in  ;  and  at 
last  I  says  to  the  lady,  'Why,  it's  quite  a  conquest 
of  people  !  Wotever  can  it  mean  ?  —  Do  you  think, 
mum,"  I  says  to  the  lady  with  the  babby,  "  as  Queen 
Wictoria  is  a-comin'  'ere  to  'er  own  theayter  to-night, 
as  'ave  always  'eard  as  there's  crowds  for  to  see  'er 
wherever  she  goes  t  " 

She  said  as  she  did  not  know,  therefore  could  not 


r6  TREASURE-TROVE. 

tell.  But  the  old  gentleman,  —  'im  with  the  win- 
kles,—  he  says,  a-tumin'  round  quite  sharp,  "Oh. 
bless  you,  no  !  she  can't  be  here  to-night ;  for  don't 
you  know  as  she  dursn't  come  over  the  bridges  with- 
out the  leave  of  the  Lord  Mare  ?  And  she  can't  get 
that  to-night,  I  can  tell  you  j  for  to  my  certain  kno-wl- 
edge  he's  gone  to  dine  along  ^,\^th  the  Licensed 
VVittlars,  as  is  annular  custom." 

'*  Oh  !  "  I  says,  "  indeed  !  I  do  not  pretend  for  to 
understand  politics,  as  ain't  a  woman's  spear  in  my 
opinion,  tho'  others  thinks  different." 

But,  poor  old  gentleman,  I  see  'im  a-'eavin' ;  and, 
thro'  'im  a-anserin'  me  that  suddin  about  Queen 
Wictoria  a-comin',  somethink  'ad  been  and  gone 
the  \^Tong  way,  as  made  'im  bust  out,  and  guggle 
and  splutter  all  over  the  place. 

It  give  me  sich  a  awful  turn  a-seein'  'im  purple  to 
the  roots  of  'is  'airs,  and  a-'oopin'  like  a  hinfant  in 
croup,  'cos  I  nat'rally  thought  as  he'd  been  and 
swallered  that  crooked  pin  as  he  were  a-eatin'  of  'is 
winkles  with,  as  it  did  not  prove  to  be.  but  only 
them  carryways  as  was  aggrawatin'  of  'is  throat,  as 
is  as  sharp  as  needles,  as  the  savin'  is  ;  but  I  do 
believe,  il  I  'adn't  'ad  the  presence  of  mind  to  keep 
a-punchin'   'im    'ard    berween    the   blade-bones   with 


MRS.   BROWN  AT   THE  PLAY.  127 

ihe  'andle  of  my  umbreller,  he'd  *ave  been  a  tangled 
copse  at  my  feet. 

jt  give  me  sich  a  shock  a-seein'  'im  suffer  like 
fliat,  that  if  I  'adn't  'ad  the  presence  of  mind  to  'ave 
took,  the  hegg-cup  out  of  Brown's  'and,  as  were 
elpin*  'isself,  I  do  believe  as  I  must  'ave  come  out 
of  tlie  place  ;  leastvvays  that's  if  I  could,  for  we  was 
all  w«xlL^ed  up  frightful,  and  I  couldn't  'ardly  draw 
tny  breath. 

Well,  at  last  I  were  in  that  hagony  with  my  feet, 
as  I  says  to  myself,  "  I  must  ease  this  'ere  right  boot 
o(T  if  1  dies  for  it."  So  I  were  a-workin'  away  to  get 
II  down  at  'eel,  when,  all  of  a  suddin,  there  was  a 
splashy  sort  of  a  sound  like  drorin'  of  bolts;  and  I 
gets  a  shove  from  behind  as  sent  me  a-flyin',  and  I 
come  with  my  chest  with  that  fortitude  ag'in  a 
wooden  bar  as  nearly  knocked  ever}'  bit  of  my  breath 
out  of  my  body. 

I  should  'ave  been  killed  on  the  spot,  I  do 
believe,  but  for  the  perliceman  as  were  a-standin' 
there,  and  puts  'is  'and  on  my  shoulder,  and  says, 
•'  Duck  !  "  Not  as  he  me^.nt  any  think  rude  nor  free- 
like,  but  oiily  for  me  II.  stoop  my  'ead  under  that 
bar.  But  when  I  did  stoop  1  weren't  no  better  off ; 
tor  two   parties   each   side   o^  »»»e  'ad  got  'old  of  my 


128  TREASURE  TROVE. 

Chinee  crape  shawl  crossways,  and  were  a-seesaw- 
in'  of  it  across  my  throat  that  wiolent  as  strangled 
I  thouf^ht  I  must  be;  and,  in  my  contortions  for  to 
set  myself  free,  my  string  of  carnelian  beaas 
busted,  and  dribbled  down  my  back  with  a  sensa- 
tion I  sha'n't  never  forget. 

Well,  there  I  were,  with  my  'ead  under  that 
wooden  bar,  and  parties  a-drivin'  away  like  mad 
behind;  and  Brown,  as  'ad  got  in,  he  kep'  a-'ollenn' 
"  Come  on  1  " 

I  says,  "  It's  werry  easy  for  to  say,  '  Come  on; ' 
but  'owever  am  I  to  do?  "  as  couldn't  estricate  my- 
self from  under  that  bar  not  nohow,  till  Brown  he 
come  up,  and  ketched  'old  of  my  arm  with  a  jerk 
that  wiolent  as  made  every  'ook  and  eye  as  I'd  got 
about  me  give  way  \vith  a  crash,  and  pulled  me 
thro*. 

I  says,  "  Brown,  wherever  is  my  boot  ?  " 

He  saj^s,  "  Blow  your  boot! "  and,  if  it  'adn't 
been  as  that  perliceman  found  it  for  me,  I  couldn't 
ave  went  a  step  furder;  and  as  it  were,  get  it  up 
at  'eel  I  couldn't,  was  it  ever  so. 

At  last  Brown  says,  "  Come  on,  old  timber-toes, 
do,"  and  took  and  give  me  a  shove  through  a  door 
into  a  dark  place  and  says,  "Set  down  with  you  do." 

I  says,  "  Set  down,  indeed  I  wotever  on?'*  for  it 


^^^'S.  Bi<(J\\  .\    A  I    J  ///:   iJ,A  t  .  i  ^y 

were  that  dark,  I  couldn't  see  nothink,  'till,  thro' 
a-barkin'  my  shins  a-fallin'  over  somethink,  I  found 
there  was  forms  all  over  the  place,  and  disj^raceful 
forms  too,  with  nails  a-stickin'  out,  as  'ave  made  the 
back-breadth  of  my  Norwich  crape  for  all  the 
world  as  if  it  'ad  been  cut  with  a  knife. 

And,  when  I  did  come  for  to  set  down,  I  were 
that  dreadful  all-overish  and  fainty,  as,  if  I  'adn't 
kep'  on  a-sippin'  at  the  hegg-cup,  I  never  could 
'ave  stopped  in  the  place. 

Well,  arter  a  time,  I  was  more  myself  like;  and 
Brown,  he'd  made  me  go  more  forard  for  to  set,  and 
I  begun  a-lookin'  round  me;  and  I  says  to  'im,  "  if 
this  is  your  theayter  as  were  so  grand  inside,  I  don't 
think  much  on  it,  as  is  wot  I  calls  a  dingy  'ole." 

That  boy  as  'ad  been  a-standin'  at  the  door, 
a-crackin'  them  nuts,  he  was  a-settin'  just  in  front 
on  me;  and  he  turns  round,  and  says,  "  Don't  you 
tho'!"  in  a  jeery  sort  of  a  tone,  as  I  should  'ave 
give  'im  a-settin'  down  for,  thro'  not  a-'oldin'  with 
boys  a-makin'  that  free  with  their  helders;  but  just 
then  some  gentlemen  as  was  a-settin'  close  in  front 
on  us  begun  a-playin'  the  music  beautiful. 

It  certainly  were  lovely  music,  as  I  doats  on,  par- 
tickler  the  wiolin,  as  I  could  set  and  listen  to  by  the 


"  -^o  J  nh.iS  L  nil,— J  A  u  t   a. 

'■our  together :  I  'ave  done  so  afore  now,  thro'  little 
Tommy  Roberts,  as  lived  in  our  court,  a-playin'  of  it 
"^intire  by  'is  ears,  and  did  used  to  come  and  play  to 
i&e  a  'ole  artemoon. 

But  wot  I  liked  best  in  that  music  as  them  gents 
was  a-pla}in'  were  the  omet.  I  never  'eard  such 
ornet-playin',  never;  for  the  party  as  blowed  It 
biowed  that  wiolent,  a-turnin'  that  red,  with  his 
wains  a-swellin',  as  I  says  to  Brown,  "Mark  my 
words,  he'U  bust  'isself  to  bits ;  and,  wots  more,  he'll 
blow  us  all  out  of  the  place." 

I  liked  it  all  werry  much,  but  the  drum,  as  a  bit  ot 
a  boy  'd  got  'old  on,  as  were  a  deal  too  young  to  be 
trusted  with  a  drum,  as  he  'it  that  'ard  as  it  went 
clean  thro'  my  'ead,  and  drownded  every  think. 

But  I  certingly  did  like  that  music ;  and  I  says  to 
Brown,  "  It's  a  pity  there  ain't  a  bit  of  dance,  for  1 
loves  a  dance." 

That  boy,  he  turns  round,  and  says,  "You're  a 
beauty  to  dance,  any'ow !  " 

My  fingers  did  itch  for  to  box  that  boy's  ears,  as  I 
should  have  done,  only  just  then  they  drawed  up  a 
%ig  thing  as  were  'anging  in  front  of  us,  and,  oh  I  it 
were  lovely  to  be  sure.  I  never  did !  There  was 
Mue  mountings  over  there,  and  in  front  on  'em  a 


.V'A'.V.    liROWN  AT    THE    PLAY.  131 

mtr  with  a  little  bridge,  and  a  cottage  all  a  one 
side,  with  trees  a-'angin'  down,  and  lovely  flowers  ail 
over  the  place. 

"  Law,"  I  says,  "  Brown,  ain't  it  lovely  ?  'Ow  1 
should  like  to  spend  the  day  1  for  all  the  world  like 
Eppin  Forest  the  day  we  was  married." 

That  boy,  he  trms  round,  and  says,  "Shet  uf>^ 
can't  you?" 

I'd  'ave  giifsjn  'im  a  good  prog  in  the  back  with 
my  umbrellcr,  only  I  see  two  parties  a-coming  over 
that  little  bridge,  as  I  see  'ad  someth  -^  partickler 
to  say  as  I  wanted  to  listen  to. 

One  on  'em  were  a  'aughty,  stuck-up  feller  in  » 
large  cloak,  with  a  feather  in  'is  'at,  and  yeller  boots^ 
with  spurs  a-clinkin',  as  they  always  wears  over  there, 
So  I  see  in  a  instant  as  he  were  some  one  partickler. 

Jhere  come  along  with  them  a  nasty  smudged- 
*A2ed  character,  with  one  of  them  dark  caniste? 
v)oks  in  the  heye,  as  1  couldn't  abear  the  moment  ) 
St  I  eyes  on  'im,  and  says  to  Brown,  "  Mark  my 
words,  he  ain't  no  good." 

Brown,  he  only  say.s,  "  'Old  your  row  !  " 

Well  I  says,  "Thoughts  is  free,  any'ow,"  but  didn't 
say  no  more  ;  for  parties  says,  "  'U.sh  !  "  and  I  wanted 
myself  for  to  'ear  what  them  fellers  'ad  got  to  say 
for  them.s«^lv«*s 


132  TREASURE-TROVE. 

Well,  the  chap  in  the  feathers,  he  up,  and  says. 
"All  I  possesses  is  mine:  why  should  I  not  have 
that  which  I  desires  ?  " 

The  dirty  face  chap,  he  ups,  and  says,  "  My  lord, 
you  shall." 

"Oh!"  I  says,  "shall  he?"  for  I  couldn't  not 
abear  them  two  from  the  werry  fust 

Then  says  the  chap  in  the  feathers,  "  Why  does 
the  'aughty  beauty  so  long  despise  my  suits  ?  " 

The  dirty  face  chap,  he  says,  "  Give  me  but  gold, 
and  I  will  bear  *er  this  night  to  your  castle  'alls." 

I  was  put  out  to  'ear  'im  talk  like  that,  so  takes, 
and  shakes  my  umbreller  at  'im,  and  says,  "You 
dare  to  lay  a  finger  on  'er,  you  good-for-nothink, 
kidnappin'  waggerbone  !  "  as  made  Brown  give  me  a 
wiolent  nudge  to  be  quiet 

But  law  !  that  chap  with  the  feathers,  he  takes,  and 
says,  scowl  in'  like,  "  Slave,  gold  shall  be  thine,  and 
more,"  and  takes  and  chucks  at  'im  a  puss  as  long 
as  my  arm  ;  and  the  money  as  must  *ave  been  in  tha.t 
puss  must  'ave  been  untold,  if  you  might  judge  by 
*he  chink. 

Well,  that  sroudged-face  waggerbone,  he  ketches 
that  puss,  as  he  takes  and  shoves  in  'is  bussim,  and 
says,    "Ahl    she   comes,"    a-whisperm'    'oarse-like 


MRS.   BROWN  AT   THE  PLAY.  133 

And  jest  then  the  music  played  up  ;  and  out  at  that 
cottaeje-door  come  the  loveliest  young  creetur  as 
ever  I  set  eyes  on,  — a  reglar  beauty :  wax-works  was 
fools  to  'er. 

Every  one  begun  a-clappin'  of  their  *ands  as  she 
come  forrard,  a-makin'  of  'er  obedience  quite  pretty  ; 
and  I  says  to  Brown,  "  Well,  she  is  a  dear,  and  you 
can  tell  as  she's  from  the  country' :  look  at  'er  rosy 
cheeks,"  for  I  never  did  see  any  one  look  more 
rosyer. 

Well,  there  she  was  a-standin'  just  over  them 
musicianers,  as  couldn't  play  for  lookin'  at  'er,  with 
'er  lovely  'air  all  in  ringlets  down  'er  back,  jest,  for 
all  the  world,  like  a  'air-dresser's  winder,  and  a 
book-muslin  skirt  that  full,  that  it  stuck  out  like 
a  umbreller  all  round  'er. 

I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  off  'er,  and  says  to 
Brown,  "  She  is  a  love,  to  be  sure  ;  but,"  I  says, 
"  Brown  ! " 

He  says,  "  Oh,  bother  1     What  is  it  ? " 

"  Why,"  I  says,  "  she  certingly  is  a  dear  creetur ; 
but,  in  my  opinion,  'er  things  is  full  ?hort." 

Brown,  he  says,  "  All  the  better." 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  you're  a  brute  ;  but,"  I  says, 
"  all    as    I've  got   to   say  is,  if  she   was  a   dorter  of 


C34  TREASURE-TROVE. 

mine,  growed  up  like  that,  she  shouldn't  stand  at 
the  hedge  of  a  pressy  pitch  of  fiddlers,  not  with 
sich  short  things  on  as  them.  Wotever  would  you 
say  if  you  see  me  a-standin'  up  there  dressed  like 
that?" 

He  only  busts  out  a-larfin'  that  loud  as  made 
parties  'oiler  out,  "  'Ush ! "  and  stare  round  at  us,  as 
is  so  rediculous  of  Brown,  a-makin'  of  'isself  that 
conspicerous  in  a  public  place,  where  parties  wishes 
for  to  be  quiet,  in  course. 

Well,  them  two  waggerbones  'ad  drawed  their- 
selves  back  while  th^  young  gal  sung  a  little  song, 
a-wishin'  she  were  a  thing  of  hair.  As  I  says, 
***  Well,  I'm  sure  she's  got  a  plenty,  if  all  'er  own," 
as  made  them  as  was  near  me  snigger  like  ;  tho' 
some  took  my  remark  werry  'uffy,  partickler  a  young 
woman  with  a  sojer,  as  set  next  me,  as  tossed  'er 
'ead  every  time  as  I  opened  my  lips. 

When  she'd  done  a-singin',  that  young  gal  begun 
a-talkin'  about  'er  mounting  'ome  ;  and  that  chap 
with  the  feathers  comes  up  to  'er  with  a  start  like, 
and  says,  "'Aughty  beauty,  'ow  long  will  you  dis- 
dain my  suits?  'Ave  I  not  gold?  'ave  I  not  lands? 
eeill  I  not  lay  hall  at  your  feet  ? " 

Hnt   she   up   and   spoke   that  proper,  and    says. 


MRS.   BROWN  AT  THE  PLAY  13.- 

"  No,  my  lord ;  never,  my  lord  1  Though  poor  and 
lowly,  I  am  'umble  and  innercent ;  and,"  she  says> 
"  I  would  rather,"  she  says,  "  'ave  innercency  on  tht 
mounting  top  than  wice  in  a  walley." 

I  was  so  pleased  to  'ear  'er  talk  like  that,  st 
proper,  that  I  says  to  'er,  I  says,  "  And  right  you 
ire,  my  dear,"  as  made  some  fools  bust  out  a-larlin'. 

But  law  bless  you !  that  chap  in  the  feathers,  hfc 
wasn't  to  be  put  off  with  no  words  like  them,  du. 
ketches  'old  on  'er  by  the  wristes,  and  I  do  believ« 
\>ere  agoin'  to  be  downright  rude  on  the  spot. 

But  she  give  a  squall ;  and,  as  luck  would  'ave  it, 
fhere  were  a  sea-farin'  party  a-comin'  by,  a  reg'lai 
sailor  in  little  white  trousers  and  a  shiny  'at,  with  a 
stick  and  a  bundle  jest  like  a  sailor,  as  says,  "  Avas^. 
♦here  I  wot  a  lovely  fieldmale  in  distress,  and  olri 
Jack  Marlin'spike,  shiver  my  timbers." 

Oh  1  I  was  so  glad  to  see  'im,  I  could  'ave  give  'in&. 
A  kiss  ;  and  I  says,  "  Oh,  you  old  dear  1  " 

But  the  chap  in  the  feathers,  he  were  ready  foe 
'im,  bless  you ;  for  he  takes  and  whips  off  his  cloaks 
^^d  if  he  weren't  stuck  full  of  swords  and  daggers 
'II  round  'im  1 

It  give  me  such  a  orful  turn  ;  for  I  can't  abeay 
he  sight  of  them  fire-arms,  as  is  well  kno^n  wiil  go 
.cT  like  a  gpjn  when  least  espected. 


»36  TREASURE-TROVh 

So  I  says,  "Brown,"  I  says,  " there  il  be  murdei 
'ere,  I  can  see  —  the  hegg-cup  this  hinstant,  if  you 
please." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  glad  as  I  took  it  \  for,  if  I  'adn't,  I  nevei 
could  'ave  set  and  see  it ;  for  them  two  got  a-fightin' 
with  the  sailor  like  mad,  till  they  knocks  'im  down 
on  one  knee,  tho'  he  wouldn't  give  in,  with  fire 
a-fiashin'  out  of  them  swords,  till  he  were  reg'lai 
down  \  and  then  they  was  agoin'  to  massercree  'im 
on  the  spot,  when  that  young  gal  got  a  couple  of 
pistols  somewheres,  and  come  and  'eld  'em  to  their 
two  good-for-nothink  'eads. 

You  should  'ave  see  'ow  them  waggerbones  was 
took  aback,  as  went  over  that  bridge  a-gnashin'  of 
their  teeth  like  a  couple  of  tigers  debaulked  of  their 
cubs. 

That  young  gal,  she  run  away  into  the  cottage, 
glad  to  get  away  from  such  company.  But  the 
sailor,  he  got  up,  and  made  'isself  werr}'  agreeable, 
a-singin'  and  a-dancin' quite  cheerful,  —  jest  like  a 
sailor  all  over. 

Well,  I  do  think  as  I  must  'ave  dropped  off  a  biL, 
as  some  will ;  for,  tho'  the  'art  is  light,  the  heyes  is 
'eavy  sometimes.  But  there  wasn't  no  occashuns 
for  Brown  to  ketch  me  like   that  sharp  in  the  side 


MRS.  BROWN  AT  THE  PL  A  2'.  137 

with 'is  elber,  as  he  did,  and  say,  "Come,  old  snorer, 
if  you're  agoin  to  sleep  all  night,  you  might  as 
well  be  at  'omc." 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  I  am  not  reg'lar  asleep^ 
tho'  dosey,  and  wot  you  takes  for  snores  is  sobs; 
for  I  'as  a  feelin'  'art,  and  can't  help  a-f rettin'  about 
that  young  gal." 

He  says,  "  Oh,  bother  the  young  gal !  she's  all 
right.  Here,  you  take  the  hcgg-cup,  as  is  about 
your  size." 

I'm  thankful  as  I  did  take  it;  for  I'm  sure,  if  [ 
'adn't,  I  should  'ave  screamed  out,  bein'  that  sur- 
prised a-lookin'  up,  and  seein'  all  the  place  turned 
into  a  bed-room, — a  good-sized  room,  I  might  say 
large^  cho'  not  much  furniture,  with  a  little  tent- 
bed,  with  check  curtings  to  the  winder,  and  a  chest 
of  drawers  as  looked  desolate  like;  and  there  was 
that  young  gal  as  we'd  see  at  fust,  with  a  candle  in 
'er  'and,  as  she  put  down  on  the  chest  of  drawers, 
and  takes  and  draws  the  curtings,  and  turns  down 
the  bed,  all  nat'ral  like. 

Well,  then  she  takes  off  'er  little  'at,  and  kicks 
off  'er  little  shoes,  and  begins  for  to  undo  the  little 
jacket  she'd  got  on. 

So  I  says,  "  Brown!  "  and  gives  'im  a  nudge. 


TREASURR^TRO  VR, 

He  says,  "  Wot  is  it  ?  " 

I  says,  "  You  don't  never  mean  to  say  as  she's 
agoin'  to  bed  afore  all  these  people  ?  " 

He  says,  "  You'll  see." 

I  says,  "  I  'opes  I  shall  not  see  ;  foi,"  I  says,  "  ii  s 
Mghly  improper  \  and  I  shall  make  a  pint  of  not 
i-Iookin',  and  you  didn't  ought  to." 

Well,  poor  thing,  she  didn't  do  no  more  in  the 
way  of  undressin',  when  she  puffs  out  the  light.  It 
give  me  sich  a  turn ;  for  the  place  went  that  suddin 
dark,  you  wouldn't  'ave  thought  as  one  candle  could 
ave  made  sich  a  difference. 

Well,  poor  thing,  she  was  into  bed  in  a  jiffey,  aa 
the  sayin'  is,  and  off  like  a  church  in  a  instant 

"Well,"  I  says  to  Brown,  "I'm  a  good  sleeper 
myself,  but  couldn't  'ave  gone  off  suddin  like  that, 
as  were  pre'aps  through  the  music  a-playin'  that  soft 
like. 

She  'adn't  'ardly  closed  'er  heyes,  when  out  from 
the  wallance  of  *er  little  bed  come  the  'ead  of  that 
smudge-faced  willin  we'd  see  at  fust 

"  Now,"  I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  who  is  right,  una 
who  is  wrong  ?  Didn't  I  say  he  were  a  bad  'un  troia 
the  werry  fust  ? " 

He  says,  "  Oh,  do  'old  your  row,  do  !  " 


AfA\S.    BROWlsr  AT    THE    FLAY.  1-9 

I  says,  "That  depends  ;"  for  that  fellar,  he  come 
a-crawlin'  from  under  the  bed,  a-squabblin'  all  aboui 
the  place,  a-pretendin'  as  he  couldn't  see,  as  were 
like  'is  nasty  deceitful  ways  ;  'cos,  in  course,  if  I  could 
see,  he  could. 

Well,  he  goes  across  the  room,  and  opens  the 
winder,  and  gives  a  whistle  like  a  low-lived  butcher- 
boy  ;  and  if  that  willin  in  the  feathers  didn't  come 
a-rigglin'  on  the  pit  of  his  stomick  on  that  winder 
sell,  and  get  into  the  room  I 

I  says,  "  Mr.  Brown,  here's  goin's  on  as  I  don't 
'old  with.  Wotever  bisness  has  them  two  wagger- 
bones  in  this  poor  young  thing's  room  ?  "  for  I  felt 
like  a  mother  to  'er. 

Says  Brown,  "  Do  be  quiet ;  for,"  he  says,  "  if  you 
keeps  on  a-interruptin'  of  'em  like  this,  they'll  turn 
you  out." 

I  says,  "  Interruptin'  of  'em,  indeed  !  as  is  my 
dooty  for  to  do,  as  one  woman  by  another.  And,  as  to 
turnin'  me  out,  I  should  like  to  see  'em  do  it ;  for 
as  long  as  I've  got  my  umbreller,  I'm  a  match  for 
them  two  rascals,  any  day." 

Well,  poor  thing  !  jest  then,  bein'  nat'ral  disturbed 
in  'er  rest  by  them  whistlin's  and  noises,  she  give  a 
uneasy   turn    in    'er,    like    wakin'    up;  and    if    that 


1 40  TREASURR-TRO  VE. 

smudge-face  willin  didn't  take  and  draw  a  knife  oui 
as  long  as  my  arm,  as  seemed  for  to  turn  the  'o^ 
mask  of   my  blood  I 

So  I  says,  "  Brown,"  I  says,  "  if  it's  only  arf  the 
hegg-cup,  I  must  'ave  a  somethink." 

It's  a  mussy  as  I  took  it ;  for  jest  then  she  set  up 
in  the  bed,  and  giye  a  scream  as  went  right  thro' 
me,  as  made  them  two  fellers  rush  at  'er  with  their 
drawed  swords. 

I  says,  "  Brown,"  I  says,  "  I'm  your  lawful  wife, 
and  the  mother  of  children ;  and  ain't  agoin'  to  set 
'ere  in  cold  blood  and  see  murder  done,  to  please 
nobody."     And  a  party  a-settin  near  says,  "  'Ush  !  " 

I  says,  "  Who  are  you  a-'ushin' .?  I  sha'n't  'ush. 
There  I  " 

Says  another  feller,  a-'ollerin'  at  me  quite  rude, 
"  Horder  1  border  !  " 

"  Well,"  I  says,  "  suppose  I  did  come  with  a 
horder,  wot  of  that  ?  Is  that  any  reason  I  ain't  to 
do  my  dooty  by  a  fellow-creetur '  ? " 

Says  Brown,  "  Do  for  goodness'  sake  'old  your 
row  I " 

I  says,  "  I  won't  'Elp  !  "  I  says.  "  Murder  !  "  I 
says  ;  for  I  see  'em  a-puUin'  'er  out  of  'er  bed.  "  Per- 
lice,  perlice !  "  I  'oilers  ;  and  there  was  the  perlice, 


AfkS.    BRO^VX   AT    THK    PIAY.  '^i 

as  come  and  ketched  'old  of  me  by  the  harm,  and 
says,  "  Come  out  1  " 

I  says,  "  Perliceman,  'owever  dare  you  come 
a-molestin'  of  me  as  am  doin'  my  dooty  down  'ere  ? 
but  take  and  do  yours  by  them  as  is  a-doin'  wrong 
up  there.  You  never  are  where  you're  wanted,  as  is 
well  known." 

He  only  give  me  a  wiolent  pull  by  Ihe  harm,  and 
says,  "  Come,  out  with  you  1  " 

That  young  woman  as  were  a-settin'  by  me  with 
the  sojer  says,  "  And  glad  I  am  as  you're  agoin',  as 
'ave  been  a  downright  noosance  all  the  evenin' ;  for, 
when  you  ain't  been  a-jorin',  you've  been  a-snorin'  : 
so  there  ain't  been  no  'earin'  a  word  for  you." 

I  says,  "  Young  'ooman,  you  mind  your  own  bis- 
ness,  and  look  arter  your  sojer,  as  in  my  opinion 
you've  been  a-makin'  too  free  with  the  licker,  as  is 
disgraceful  in  a  fieldmale."  But  she  only  bust  out 
a-larfin' ;  and  that  boy,  he  turns  round,  and  says, 
"  Oh,  my  eye,  old  lady  1  ain't  you  mops  and 
brooms  ? " 

1  should  certingly  *ave  give  'im  a  good  settin' 
down,  only  but  for  the  perlice,  as  said,  "  Are  you 
a-comin'  ? "  and  give  me  sich  a  wiolent  jerk,  and 
Brown  %  nudge  in  the  side  simultanous,  as  the  say 


I  12  r/d£A^  (JRE-  TRO  VE. 

n'  is,  as  knocked  my  'air  right  over  my  heyes,  and 

rtjg'lar  blindfolded  me  like,  so  I  couldn't  see  nothink 
more,  but  could  'ear  that  poor  gal's  screams  whilst 
they  was  a-'awlin'  and  puUin'  and  a-liftki'  me  about 
the  place  shameful,  as  made  me  'oiler  ten  thousand 
murders,  till  they  let  me  go  with  my  'ands  at  liberty 
for  to  get  my  'air  out  of  my  heyes  ;  and,  when  I  did 
so,  I  looks  round,  and  if  I  wasn't  in  the  opin  streets, 
and  a-pourin'  with  rain  intorrently. 

So  I  says,  "  Perliceman,  I  must  go  back." 
He  says,  "  Not  to-night,  my  good  'ooman." 
I  says,  "  Who    are    you  a-callin'  your  good  'oo> 
man,  as  am  not  and  never  will  be?     But,"  I  says, 
"  I  will  go  back  ;   for  I've  left  my  umbreller  in  th^,* 
place,  and  it's  a-pourin'  with  rain." 

"  Now,"  he  says,  "  I  tell  you  wot  it  is,  if  you  don't 
^o  quiet,  I'll  lock  you  up,  and  that's  all  about  it." 

So  I  'obbles  up  to  Brown,  as  were  a-litin'  up  'is 
pipe  at  a  stall,  and  says,  "  Brown,  I've  been  and  left 
my  umbreller ; "  and  if  he  didn't  take  and  walk  on, 
a*usiri*  a  epitaph  to  me  as  I  blushes  to  think  on. 

And  every  step  of  the  way  I  'ad  to  'obble  'ome 
arter  'im,  with  my  boot  down  at  'eel,  through  tlie 
pourin'  rain,  like  a  drownded  rat ;  and,  when  we  got 
to  our  door,  wot   do   you   think?     Why,  if  I  'adn't 


MRS.    BROWN'  AT  THE  PLAY.  143 

been  and  left  the  key  of  the  door  in  my  redicule  in 
that  theayter :  so  we  'ad  to  stand  there  pretty  nigh 
arf  a  'our  afore  Brown  could  knock  up  the  neigh- 
bors, and  get  through  the  back  premises  for  to  let 
me  in. 

'Ow  I  got  to  bed,  I  can't  think ;  for  the  only  thing 
as  I  remembers  was  Brown  a-cuttin'  my  left  boot 
ofT,  through  bein'  that  swelled  as  nothink  wouldn't 
move  it.  And  all  night  long  I  was  a-dreamin'  of 
murders  and  horrors,  with  the  bed  a-turnin'  round 
with  me,  and  my  'ead  a-swimmin'  and  splittin'  like 
mad  ;  and,  when  he  was  a-gettin'  up  in  the  mornin', 
I  says,  "  Brown,  that's  a  dear,  give  me  a  drop  of 
water ;  fsr  I  am  that  dreadful  parched." 

He  busts  out  a-larfin*  as  he  give  it  me,  and  says, 
'  Well,  you  are  a  beauty  ! "  and  out  of  the  rooms  he 
goes ;  and  when  I  got  up  and  looks  at  myself  in  the 
glass,  I  never  did.  I  was  a  reg'lar  objec' ;  for  if  the 
rain  'adn't  been  and  washed  all  the  green  linin'  out 
of  my  leghorn  into  my  face.  Through  bein'  a 
ingrain  color,  I  didn't  get  it  out  for  weeks.  And  wot 
with  the  cold  as  I  caught,  and  the  rheumatics  as  set 
in,  I  were  laid  up  for  days.  And  wot  I  couldn't  get 
out  of  my  'ead  were  that  poor  young  creetur  ;  and 
all  as  I've  got  to  say  is,  'owever  Queen  Wictoria  can 


144 


TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 


allow  sich  shameful  goin's  on  at  'er  theayter  puzzle-^ 
me  ;  but  all  I  can  say  is,  if  that's  their  ways  of  goin' 
^m  at  them  plays,  if  ever  I  goes  agin  to  the  play, 
tiiem  as  sees  me  there  may  tell  me  on  it" 


THE  WILL  OF  A  VIRTUOSO, 

BY    JOSEPH    ADDISON. 

NICHOLAS  GkMCRACK,  being  iu 
sound  health  of  mind,  but  in  great  weak- 
ness of  body,  do,  by  this  my  last  will  and 
testament,  bestow  my  worldly  goods  and  chattels  in 
manner  following :  — 

Imprimis^  —  To  my  dear  wife, 
One  box  of  butterflies, 
One  drawer  of  shells, 
A  female  skeleton, 
A  dried  cockatrice. 
[tem^  —  To  my  daughter  Elizabeth, 

My  receipt  for  preserving  dead  caterpillars, 
As  also  my  preparations  of  winter  Mayd'^w  and 
embr)'o-|)ickle. 
ftan,  •  *  To  my  little  daughter  Fanny, 
Threx-  crocodile's  eg;rs. 

o  us 


146  TREASUKE-TROVE. 

And    upon   the   birth   of    her  first   child,    if  sh€ 
marries  with  her  mother's  consent, 
The  nest  of  a  humming-bird. 
Item,  —  To  my  eldest  brother,  as  an  acknowledg- 
ment for  the  lands  he  has  vested  in  my  son  Charles, 
;  bequeath 

My  last  year's  collection  of  grasshoppers. 
Item,  —  To  his  daughter  Susanna,  being  his  only 
child,  I  bequeath  my 

English  weeds  pasted  on  royal  paper, 
With  my  large  folio  of  Indian  cabbage. 
Having  fully  provided  for  my  nepKew  Isaac,  by 
making  over  to  him  some  years  since, 
A  homed  scarabaeus, 
The  skin  of  a  rattlesnake,  and 
The  mummy  of  an  Egyptian  king, 
I  make  no  further  provision  for  him  in  this  my  wit' 

My  eldest  son,  John,  having  spoke  disrespectfully 
of  his  little  sister,  whom  I  keep  by  me  in  spirits  of 
wine;  and  in  many  other  instances  behaved  himself 
undutifully  towards  me,  I  do  disenherit,  and  wholly 
cut  off  from  any  part  of  this  my  personal  estate,  by 
giving  him  a  single  cockle-shell. 

To  my  second  son,  Charles,  I  give  and  bequeath  all 
my  flowers,  plants,  minerals,  mosses,  shells,  pebbles. 


THE    WILL    OF  A     VIRTUOSO.  147 

fossils,  beetles,  butterflies,  caterpillars,  grasshoppers, 
and  vermin,  not  above  specified  ;  as  also  all  my  mon- 
sters, both  wet  and  dry;  making  the  said  Charles 
whole  and  sole  executor  of  this  my  last  will  and 
testament :  he  paying,  or  causing  to  be  paid,  the 
aforesaid  legacies  within  the  space  of  six  months 
after  my  decease.  And  I  do  hereby  revoke  al!  other 
wills  whatsoever  by  me  formerly  made. 


4N  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  GOLDEN  AGE  OF 
NEW  YORK. 

BY   WASmNGTON    IRVING. 

HE  houses  of  the  higher  class  were  gener- 
ally constructed  of  wood,  excepting  the 
gable-end,  which  was  of  small  black-and- 
yellow  Dutch  bricks,  and  always  faced  on  the 
streets ;  as  our  ancestors,  like  their  descendants, 
were  very  much  given  to  outward  show,  and  were 
noted  for  putting  the  best  leg  foremost  The  houses 
were  always  furnished  with  abundance  of  large  doors 
and  small  windows  on  every  floor.  The  date  of  its 
erection  was  curiously  designated  by  iron  figures  on 
the  front ;  and  on  the  top  of  the  roof  was  perched  a 
fierce  little  weathercock,  to  let  the  family  into  the 
important  secret  which  way  the  wind  blew. 

These,  like  the  weathercocks  on  the  tops  of  oui 
steeples,  pointed  so  many  different  ways,  that  even 

«48 


1  Ht    GOLDEN  AGE   OF  NEW    YORK.        140 

m;in  could  have  a  wind  to  his  mind.  Th(j  mosi 
sianch  and  loyal  citizens,  however,  always  wem 
according  to  the  weathercock  on  the  top  of  the 
"governor's  house,  which  was  certainly  the  most  cor- 
rect, as  he  had  a  trusty  servant  employed  every 
morning  to  climb  up,  and  set  it  to  the  right  quarter. 

In  those  good  days  of  simplicity  and  sunshine, 
a  passion  for  cleanliness  was  the  leading  principle  in 
domestic  economy,  and  the  universal  test  of  an  ablf* 
housewife,  —  a  character  which  formed  the  utmost 
ambition  of  our  unenlightened  grandmothers.  The 
front-door  was  never  opened,  except  on  marriages, 
funerals.  New  Year's  days,  the  festival  of  St.  Nicho- 
las, or  some  such  great  occasion.  It  was  ornamented 
with  a  gorgeous  brass  knocker,  curiously  wrought, — 
sometimes  in  the  device  of  a  dog,  and  sometimes  of 

lion's  head,  —  and  was  daily  burnished  with  such 
religious  zeal,  that  it  was  ofttimes  worn  out  by  the 
very  precautions  taken  for  its  preservation.  The 
whole  house  was  constantly  in  a  state  of  inundation, 
under  the  discipline  of  mops  and  brooms  and  scrub- 
bing-brushes ;  and  the  good  housewives  of  those 
days  were  a  kind  of  amphibious  animal,  delighting 
exceedingly  to  be  dabbling  in  water  ;  insomuch  thai 
an  historian   of  the  day  grrx?ely   tells   us,  that   many 


1 5  O  TREASURE- TRO Vh . 

of  his  townswomen  grew  to  have  webbed  fingers  like 
unto  a  duck ;  and  some  of  them,  he  had  little  doubt, 
could  the  matter  be  examined  into,  would  be  found 
to  have  the  tails  of  mermaids.  But  this  I  look 
upon  to  be  a  mere  sport  of  fancy,  or,  what  is  worse. 
a  wilful  misrepresentation. 

The  g^and  parlor  was  the  .  anctum  sanctorum, 
where  the  pa»**ion  for  cleaning  was  indulged  without 
•w-jntrol.  In  this  sacred  apartment  no  one  was  per- 
micted  to  enter,  excepting  the  mistress  and  her  con- 
fid  enti -J  maid,  who  visited  it  once  a  week,  for  U:ie 
purpose  of  giving  it  a  thorough  cleaning,  and  putting 
things  to  rights,  always  taking  the  precaution  of 
leaving  their  shoes  at  the  door,  and  entering  de- 
voutly on  their  stocking-feet.  After  scrubbing  the 
floor,  sprinkling  it  \\4th  fine  white  sand,  which  was 
curiously  stroked  into  angles  and  curves  and  rhom- 
boids with  a  broom  ;  after  washing  the  windows, 
nibbing  and  polishing  the  furniture,  and  putting  a 
new  bunch  of  evergreens  in  the  fireplace,  —  thc 
window-shutters  were  again  closed  to  keep  out 
the  flies,  and  the  room  carefully  locked  up  until  the 
revolution  of  time  brought  round  die  weekly  clean 
Ing  day. 

As  tc/  the   family   they   always  entered   'n   at  the 


fHE    GOLDEN  aGE   OF  NEW  YORK,       151 

Cdte,  and  most  generally  lived  in  the  kitchen.  To 
have  seen  a  numerous  household  assembled  roiind 
the  fire,  one  would  have  imagined  that  he  was  trans- 
ported back  to  those  happy  days  of  primeval  simpli- 
city which  float  before  our  imaginations  like  golden 
visions.  The  fireplaces  were  of  a  truly  patriarchal 
magnitude,  where  the  whole  family,  old  and  young, 
.Ti aster  and  servant,  black  and  white,  nay,  even  the 
very  cat  and  dog,  enjoyed  a  community  of  privilege, 
^nd  had  each  a  right  to  a  corner.  Here  the  old 
burgher  would  sit  in  perfect  silence,  puffing  his  pipe, 
looking  in  the  fire  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  thinking 
of  nothing  for  hours  together ;  the  goede  vrouw,  on 
the  opposite  side  would  employ  herself  diligently  in 
spinning  yarn,  or  knitting  stockings.  The  young 
folks  would  crowd  around  the  hearth,  listening  with 
breathless  attention  to  some  old  crone  of  a  negro, 
who  was  the  oracle  of  the  family,  and  who,  perched 
like  a  raven  in  a  comer  of  the  chimney,  would 
r.roak  forth  for  a  long  winter  afternoon  a  string  of 
incredible  stones  about  New  England  witches, 
grisly  ghosts,  horses  without  heads,  and  hairbreadth 
escapes,  and  bloody  encounters  among  Jie  Indians. 

In  those  happy  days  a  well  regulated  family  always 
rose  with  the  dawn,  dined  at  eleven,  and  went  to  bed 


152  "  A'  A  A  S  URE-  TRO  VE . 

at  suiib^et.  Dir'ner  was  invariably  a  private  meal  . 
and  the  fat  old  burghers  showed  incontestable  signs 
of  disapprobation  and  uneasiness  at  being  surprised 
by  a  visit  from  a  neighbor  on  such  occasions  Bui 
tuoagh  our  worthy  ancestors  were  thus  singularly 
averse  to  giving  dinners,  yet  they  kept  up  the  social 
bards  of  intimacy  by  occasional  banquerings,  called 
tfea-parties. 

These  fashionable  parties  were  generally  confined 
to  the  higher  classes,  or  nobksse ;  that  is  to  say,  such 
as  kept  their  own  cows,  and  drove  their  own  wagons 
The  company  commonly  assembled  about  three 
o'clock,  and  went  away  about  six,  unless  it  was  in 
V.  mter-time,  when  the  fashionable  hours  were  a  little 
earlier,  that  the  ladies  might  get  home  before  dark. 
The  tea-table  was  crowned  with  a  huge  earthen  dish, 
well  stored  with  slices  of  fac  pork  fried  brown,  cut  up 
into  morsels,  and  swimming  in  gra\y.  The  company 
—  being  seated  round  the  genial  board,  and  each 
furnished  with  a  fork  -  evinced  their  dexterit}'  in 
launching  at  the  fattest  ^/eces  in  this  might}'  dish,  in 
much  the  same  manne\  as  sailors  harpoon  porpoises 
at  sea,  or  our  India^xS  spear  salmon  in  the  lakes. 
Sometimes  tne  table  was  graced  with  immense  apple- 
pies,  or  ^auccis  fuK  of  preserved  peaches  and  ^y^ars  - 


but  it  was  always  surr  lo  ooasi  an  enormous  disl 
of  balls  of  sweetened  dough,  fried  in  hog's  fat,  and 
called  doughnuts,  or  olykocks,  —  a  delicious  kind  of 
cake,  at  present  scarce  known  in  this  city,  except 
'Li  genuine  Dutch  families. 

The  tea  was  served  out  of  a  majestic  Delft  teapiot, 
ornanicjiced  with  paintings  of  fat  little  Dutch  shei> 
herds  and  shepherdesses  tending  pigs,  with  boatb 
sailing  in  the  air,  and  houses  built  in  the  clouds,  and 
sundr)'  other  ingenious  Dutch  fantasies.  The  beau.x 
distinguished  themselves  by  their  adroitness  in  re 
plenishing  this  pot  from  a  huge  copper  teakettle 
which  would  have  made  the  pygmy  macaronies  of 
thesfe  degenerate  days  sweat  merely  to  look  at  it. 
To  sweeten  the  beverage,  a  lump  of  sugar  was  laid 
beside  each  cup  ;  and  the  company  alternately  nibbled 
:ind  sipped  with  great  decorum,  until  an  improve 
ment  was  introduced  by  a  shrewd  and  economic  old 
hidy,  which  was  to  suspend  a  large  lump  directly 
over  the  tea-table,  by  a  string  from  the  ceiling,  so 
that  it  could  be  swung  from  mouth  to  mouth,  —  an 
ingenious  expedient  which  is  still  kept  up  by  some 
families  in  Albany,  but  which  prevails,  without  excep- 
tion, m  Communipaw,  Bergen,  Flatbush,  and  all  our 
«in contaminated  Dutch  villages. 


J  t\  t:.n^i  L   A  £,  ■ 


At  these  primitive  tea-parties  the  utmost  prop-net) 
and  dignit}'  of  deportment  prevailed.  No  flirting  nor 
coquetting,  no  gambling  of  old  ladies,  nor  hoyden 
chatting  and  romping  of  young  ones,  no  self-satisfied 
struttings  of  wealthy  gentlemen  with  their  brains  in 
their  pocket,  nor  amusing  conceits,  and  monkey 
divertisements,  of  smart  young  gentlemen  with  no 
brains  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  young  ladies 
seated  themselves  demurely  in  their  rush-bottomed 
chairs,  and  knit  their  own  woollen  stockings,  nor 
ever  opened  their  lips,  excepting  to  say,  "  Yah  Myn^- 
heer^''  or,  "  Yah,  yah^  Vrouw''  to  any  question  that 
was  asked  them  ;  beha\dng  in  all  things  like  decent, 
well-educated  damsels.  As  to  the  gentlemen,  each 
of  them  tranquilly  smoked  his  pipe,  and  seemed  lost 
in  contemplation  of  the  blue-and-white  tiles  with 
which  the  fireplaces  were  decorated,  wherein  sundry 
passages  of  Scripture  were  piously  portrayed.  Tobit 
and  his  dog  figured  to  great  advantage ;  Haman 
swung  conspicuously  on  his  gibbet ;  and  Jonah  ap 
peared  most  manfully  bouncing  out  of  the  whalt 
like  Harlequin  through  a  barrel  of  fire. 

The  parties  broke  up  without  noise  and  without 
confusion.  They  were  carried  home  by  their  o^^ti 
carriages  ;  that  is  to  say.  by  the  vehicles  Nature  had 


THE   GOLDEN  AGE   OF  NEW   YORK.       155 

provided  them,  excepting  such  of  the  wealthy  as 
could  afford  to  keep  a  wagon.  The  gentlemen  gal- 
lantly attended  their  fair  ones  to  their  respective 
abodes,  and  took  leave  of  them  with  a  hearty  smack 
at  the  door ;  which,  as  it  was  an  established  piece  of 
etiquette,  done  in  perfect  simplicity  and  honesty  of 
heart,  occasioned  no  scandal  at  that  time,  nor  should 
It  at  the  present :  if  our  great-grandfathers  approved 
of  the  custom,  it  would  argue  a  great  want  of  defer- 
ence in  their  descendants  to  say  a  word  against  it. 

In  this  dulcet  period  of  my  history,  when  the 
beauteous  island  of  Mannahata  presented  a  scene 
the  very  counterpart  of  those  glowing  pictures  drawn 
of  the  golden  reign  of  Saturn,  there  was.  as  I  have 
before  observed,  a  happy  ignorance,  an  honest  sim- 
plicity, prevalent  among  its  inhabitants,  which,  were 
I  even  able  to  depict,  would  be  but  little  understood 
by  the  degenerate  age  for  which  I  am  doomed  to 
write.  Even  the  female  sex,  those  arch  innovators 
'ipon  the  tranquillity,  the  honesty,  and  gray-beard 
customs  of  society,  seemed  for  a  while  to  conduct 
themselves  with  incredible  sobriety  and  comeliness. 

Their  hair,  untortured  by  the  abominations  of  art, 
was  scrupulously  pomatumed  back  from  their  fore- 
heads with  a  caidle,  and  covered  with  a  little  cap  of 


15b  THFASUKh-TROVE. 

quilted  calico,  which  fitted  exactly  to  their  heads 
Their  petticoats,  of  linsey-woolsey,  were  striped  with 
a  variety  of  gorgeous  dyes,  though  I  must  confess 
these  gallant  garments  were  rather  short,  scarce 
reaching  below  the  knee  ;  but  then  they  made  up  in 
the  number,  which  generally  equalled  that  of  the 
gentleman's  small-clothes  ;  and,  what  is  still  more 
praiseworthy,  they  were  all  of  their  own  manufac- 
ture, —  of  which  circumstance,  as  may  well  be  sup- 
posed, they  were  not  a  little  vain. 

Those  were  the  honest  days  in  which  every  woman 
staid  at  home,  read  the  Bible,  and  wore  pockets,  — 
ay,  and  that,  too,  of  a  goodly  size,  —  fashioned  with 
patchwork  into  many  curious  devices,  and  ostenta- 
tiously worn  on  the  outside.  These,  in  fact,  were 
convenient  receptacles,  where  all  good  housewives 
carefully  stored  away  such  things  as  they  wished  to 
have  at  hand  ;  by  which  means  they  often  came  to  be 
incredibly  crammed.  And  I  remember  there  used  to 
be  a  story  current,  when  I  was  a  boy,  that  the  lady 
of  Wouter  Van  Twiller  once  had  occasion  to  empty 
her  right  pocket  in  search  of  a  wooden  ladle,  when 
the  contents  filled  a  couple  of  corn-baskets,  and  the 
utensil  was  discovered  lying  among  some  rubbish  in 
one  comer.     But  we  must  not  give  too  much  faith  to 


THK   GOLDEN  AGE   OF  NEW    YORK.       15'/ 

al?    these   stories,    the    anecdotes   of    those    remote 
periods  being  very  subject  to  exaggerarion. 

Besides  these  notable  pockets,  they  likewise  wore? 
scissors  and  pincushions  suspended  from  their  gir 
dies  by  red  ribbons,  or,  among  the  more  opulent  and 
show}'  classes,  by  brass,  and  even  silver  chains,  — 
indubitable  tokens  of  thrifty  housewives  and  indus 
trious  spinsters.  I  cannot  say  much  in  vindicatiop 
of  the  shortness  of  the  petticoats :  it  doubtless  wa< 
introduced  for  the  purpose  of  giving  the  stockings  a 
chance  to  be  seen,  which  were  generally  of  blue 
fvorsted,  with  magnificent  red  clocks,  —  or,  perhaps, 
to  display  a  well-turned  ankle,  and  a  neat  though 
servir^able  foot,  set  off  by  a  high-heeled  leathern 
shoe,  with  a  large  and  splendid  silver  buckle.  Thus 
we  find  that  the  gentle  sex  in  all  ages  have  shown 
the  same  disposition  to  infringe  a  little  upon  the 
laws  of  decorum  in  order  to  betray  a  lurking  beaut) 
or  gratify  an  innocent  love  of  finery. 

From  the  sketch  here  given,  it  will  be  seen  that 
our  good  grandmothers  differed  considerably  in  their 
ideas  of  a  fine  figure  from  their  scantily-dressed 
descendants  of  the  present  day.  A  fine  lady,  in 
those  times,  waddled  undei  more  clothes,  even  on  a 
fair  summer's  day,  than  would   have  clad   the  wboV 


L  S 8  TREASURE^ TRO  VE, 

bevy  of  a  modern  ball-room.  Nor  were  thev  the 
less  admired  by  the  gentlemen  in  conseque\2ce 
thereof.  On  the  contrar}%  the  greatness  of  a  lover's 
passion  seemed  to  increase  in  proportion  to  the 
magnitude  of  its  object ;  and  a  voluminous  damsel, 
arrayed  in  a  dozen  of  petticoats,  was  declared  by  a 
Low  Dutch  sonneteer  of  the  province  to  be  radiant  as 
a  sunflower,  and  luxuriant  as  a  full-blown  cabbage. 
Certain  it  is,  that,  in  those  days,  the  heart  of  a  lover 
could  not  contain  more  than  one  lady  at  a  time : 
whereas  the  heart  of  a  modem  gallant  has  often 
room  enough  to  accommodate  half  a  dozen.  The 
reason  of  which,  I  conclude  to  be,  that  either  the 
hearts  of  the  gentlemen  have  grown  larger,  or  the 
persons  of  the  ladies  smaller:  this,  however,  is  a 
question  for  physiologists  to  determine. 

But  there  was  a  secret  charm  in  these  petticoats, 
which,  no  doubt,  entered  into  the  consideration  of 
the  prudent  gallants.  The  wardrobe  of  a  lady  was, 
in  those  days,  her  only  fortune  ;  and  she  who  had  a 
good  stock  of  petticoats  and  stockings  was  as  abso- 
lutely an  heiress  as  is  a  Kamtschatka  damsel  vfith  a 
store  of  bear-skins,  or  a  Lapland  belle  with  a  plenty 
of  reindeer.  The  ladies,  therefore,  were  very  anx- 
ous    t*^  disr'"*"  *"^.ose    Love-^"'    a-r-a.'rirns    to    the 


THE    GOLDEN  AGE   OE  JVEh     YORK.       159 

fCreatest  advantage  ;  and  die  best  rooms  in  the  hou«5e, 
nstead  of  being  adorned  with  caricatures  of  Dame 
xVature  in  water  colors  and  needlework,  were  always 
nung  round  with  abundance  of  homespun  garments, 
the  manufacture  and  the  property  of  the  females,  — 
a  piece  of  laudable  ostentation  that  still  prevails 
among  the  heiresses  of  our  Dutch  villages. 

The  gentlemen,  in  fact,  who  figured  in  the  circles 
of  the  gay  world  in  these  ancient  times,  corres- 
ponded, in  most  particulars,  with  the  beauteous 
damsels  whose  smiles  they  were  ambitious  to  deserve. 
True  it  i^  their  merits  would  make  but  a  very  incon- 
siderable impression  upon  the  heart  of  a  moden, 
fair.  They  neither  drove  their  curricles,  nor  sported 
their  tandems  ;  for  as  yet  those  gaudy  vehicles  were 
not  even  dreamt  of.  Neither  did  they  distinguish 
themselves  by  their  brilliancy  at  the  table,  and 
their  consequent  rencounters  with  watchmen  ;  for  our 
forefathers  were  of  too  pacific  a  disposition  to  neen 
those  guardians  of  the  night,  every  soul  throughout 
.ne  town  being  sound  asleep  before  nine  o'clock. 
Neither  did  they  establish  their  claims  to  gentilit\'  at 
the  expense  of  their  tailors  ;  for  as  yet  those  otTenders 
against  the  pockets  of  societ)',  and  the  tranquillity  01 
aU  aspiring  young  gentlemen,  were  unknown  in  Nrv^ 


T  60  TREA  S  URE-  TR  O  VE. 

Amsterdam.  Every  good  housewife  made  the  clothej^ 
of  her  husband  and  family ;  and  even  the  £^0€df. 
Vrouw  of  Van  Twiller  himself  thought  it  no  dispar- 
agement to  cut  out  her  husband's  Unsey-woolse» 
galligaskins. 

Not  but  what  there  were  some  two  or  three  young 
sters  who  manifested  the  first  dawning  of  what  is 
called  tire  and  spirit ;  who  held  all  labor  in  contempt, 
skulked  about  docks  and  market-places,  loitered  in 
the  sunshine,  squandered  what  little  money  they 
could  procure  at  hustle-cap  and  chuck-farthing,  swore, 
boxed,  fought  cocks,  and  raced  their  neighbors' 
horses ;  in  short,  who  promised  to  be  the  wonder, 
talk,  and  abomination  of  the  town,  had  not  their  st\-l- 
ish  career  been  unfortunately  cut  short  by  an  affair 
of  honor  with  a  whipping-post 

Far  other,  however,  was  the  truly  fashionable  gen- 
tleman of  those  days.  His  dress,  which  sen'ed  for 
both  morning  and  evening,  street  and  drawing-room, 
was  a  linsey-woolsey  coat,  made,  perhaps,  by  the  fair 
hands  of  the  mistress  of  his  affections,  and  gallantly 
bedeckfd  Nvith  abundance  of  large  brass  buttois. 
Half  a  score  of  breeches  heightened  the  proportions 
3t  his  figure  ;  his  shoes  were  decorated  by  enormous 
copper  buckles  ;  a  low-crowned,  broad-rimmeti  hat. 


yV/A    tjOLVi:^^   AGf    OF  AEtV    YOKK.        rr  i 

>vershadowed  his  burlv  visage ;  and  his  hair  dan 
gled  down  his  back  in  a  prodigious  cue  of  eel-skin. 

Thus  equipped,  he  would  manfully  set  forth,  with 
pipe  in  mouth,  to  besiege  some  fair  damsel's  obdu- 
rate heart,  —  not  such  a  pipe,  good  reader,  as  that 
which  Acis  did  sweetly  tune  in  praise  of  his  Galatea, 
but  one  of  true  Delft  manufacture,  and  furnished 
-^ith  a  charge  of  fragrant  tobacco.  With  this  would 
he  resolutely  set  himself  down  before  the  fortress, 
ano  rarely  failed,  in  the  process  of  time,  to  smokj* 
the  tair  enemy  into  a  surrender  upon  honorablr 
terras. 

Such  was  the  happy  reign  of  Wouter  Van  Twille:, 
celehrated  in  many  a  long-forgotten  song  as  the  real 
golden  age  ;  the  rest  being  nothing  but  counterteit, 
copper-washed  coin.  In  that  delightful  period,  a 
sweet  and  holy  calm  reigned  over  the  whole  province. 
The  burgomaster  smoked  his  pipe  in  peace :  iJie 
substantial  solace  of  his  domestic  cares,  after  her 
daily  toils  were  done,  sat  soberly  at  the  door,  with 
her  arms  crossed  over  her  apron  of  snowy  white, 
without  being  insulted  with  ribald  street-walkers  c 
vagabond  boys,  —  those  unlucky  urchins  who  do  so 
infest  our  streets,  displaying  under  the  roses  of 
voutTi   the  thorns  and   briers  of   iniquity.      Then   it 


J  62  TREA  S  URE-  TRO  VE. 

w'^s  that  the  lover  with  ten  breeches,  and  the  damsei 
with  petticoats  of  half  a  score,  indulged  in  all  the 
innocent  endearments  of  virtuous  love,  without  fear, 
and  without  reproach ;  for  what  had  that  virtue  to 
fear,  which  was  defended  by  a  shield  of  good  linsey- 
woolseys,  equal  at  least  to  the  seven  bull-hides  of  the 
invincible  Ajax  ? 

Ah,  blissful  and  never-to-be-forgotten  age  1  when 
every  thing  was  better  than  it  has  ever  been  since, 
or  ever  will  be  again,  when  Buttermilk  Channel 
was  quite  dry  at  low  water,  when  the  shad  in  the 
Hudson  were  all  salmon,  and  when  the  moon  shone 
with  a  pure  and  resplendent  whiteness,  instead  of 
ihat  melancholy  yellow  light  which  is  the  conse- 
quence of  her  sickening  at  the  abominations  she 
every  night  witnesses  in  this  degenerate  city. 


THE  INSANITY  OF  CAIN. 

BY    MARY    MAPES    DODGE. 

HATEVER  is  startling  in  the  fact  of 
questioning  Cain's  sanity,  only  goes  to 
prove  the  simple  justice  of  the  doubt. 
For  more  than  five  thousand  years  hu- 
mankind has  been  content  to  look  upon  the  First 
Born  as  a  murderer.  Each  new  generation,  con- 
victing him,  as  it  were,  without  hearing  of  judge 
or  jury,  has  felt  far  more  concern  that  the  convic- 
tion should  be  understood  as  a  so-called  religious 
fact,  than  that  their  remote  and  defenceless  fellow- 
creature  should  have  the  benefit  of  human  justice. 
One-tenth  of  the  zeal  and  candor  with  which  our 
own  Froude  has  endeavored  to  make  a  saint  of 
England's  chronic  widower  might  have  sufficed  to 
lift  a  world's  weight  of  obloquy  from  the  shoul- 
ders of  Cain;  but,  until  to-day,  no  philosopher  ha= 
chosen   tn  a--^"'"^'^   ♦b<'   d'<>''^--'^   -ind  delicate  tmt^ 


164  TREASURE  TROVE. 

No  jurisprudent  has  dared  to  investigate  a  charge 
that  has  been  a  sort  of  moral  stronghold  for  ages. 
So  grand  a  thing  is  it  to  be  able  to  point  away,  far 
back,  deeper  and  deeper  into  antiquity,  to  the  very 
first  families,  and  say,  Behold  the  fountain-head  of 
our  murder  record! 

Doo^srerel  has  much  to  answer  for.  It  has  driven 
many  a  monstrous  wrong  into  the  heart  of  its  cen- 
tury.    It  has  done  its  worst  with  Cain,  but  not  the 

worst. 

C is  for  Cain, 

Who  his  brother  had  slain. 

though  winning  in  cadence,  lacks  spirit  as  a  charge. 
It  is  too  non-committal.  The  feeble  soul  that  con- 
trived it  was  fit  only  for  jury-duty.  It  wants  the 
snap  of  preconceived  opinion.  But  Caix,  the 
First  ^Murderer,  is  grand,  unique,  statistical. 
Hence  its  vitality  and  power.  Generation  after 
generation,  taught  to  loathe  his  very  name,  has 
accepted  the  statement  on  general  principles. 
There  had  to  be  a  first  murderer,  and  why  not 
Cain?  Again;  why  not  Abel  for  the  murderee? 
There  was  no  miasma  in  that  sweet,  fresh  time; 
no  scope  for  contagious  diseases;  there  were  no 
pastry-shops,  no  distilleries,  no  patent-medicines,  no 


THE   INSAIVITY  OF  CAIN.  165 

blisters,  no  lancets,  and  no  doctors :  consequently, 
tnere  was  no  way  for  a  man  to  die,  unless  sombody 
killed  him.  Cain  did  this  thing  for  Abel.  That  we 
do  not  dispute ;  nor  that  he  did  it  gratis  and  unso- 
licited :  but  was  he  a  murderer  ?  Setting  aside  the 
possibility  that  Abel's  time  had  not  come,  are  we  to 
judge  Cain  by  the  face  of  his  deed  ?  May  there  not 
have  peen  palliating  conditions,  temperamental 
causes  ?     In  a  word,  was  he  sane  ? 

For  centuries,  ages,  the  jvorld  has  overlooked  the 
tremendous  considerations  involved  in  this  question, 
placidly  branding  an  unfortunate  man  with  deepest 
ignominy,  and  taking  it  for  granted  that  his  deed 
was  deliberate,  the  act  of  a  self-poised,  calculating, 
and  guilty  mind.     Let  us  see. 

In  the  first  place,  Cain,  for  a  time,  was  the  only 
child  on  earth.  That  in  itself  was  enough  to  dis- 
turb the  strongest  juvenile  organism,  —  all  the  pet- 
ting, nursing,  trotting,  coddling,  and  watching  of  the 
whole  civilized  world  falling  upon  one  pair  of  baby 
shoulders.  Naturally  the  little  fellow  soon  con- 
sidered himself  a  person  of  consequence,  all- 
absorbing  consequence,  in  fact.  Then  came  Abel, 
disturbing  and  upsetting  his  dearest  convictions,  — 
another  self,  a  new  somebody,  a    kicking  countei 


-  6f-  TREA  S  URE-  TR  O  VE. 

tfcit.  held  fondly  in  his  mother's  arms,  riding  l.o 
Banbury  Cross  on  his  father's  foot  I 

A  brother  ?  What  did  it  mean  ?  There  were  no 
books  to  tell  him ;  and,  if  there  had  been,  the  poor 
child  never  knew  a  letter.  There  were  no  philoso- 
phers or  metaphysicians  in  those  days  to  explain  the 
phenomenon.  The  earliest  Beecher  was  not  bom. 
Darwin  was  still  a  lingering  atom  in  some  undreamed 
of,  unorganized  pseudo-protoplasm  of  a  monkey. 
The  child  had  no  friends,  not  even  a  school-fellow. 
Adam's  time  was  taken  up  with  what  modem  conun- 
drumists  have  called  his  express  company  ;  Eve  had 
the  baby  to  mind ;  and  Cain  was  left  alone  to  brood 
over  the  unfathomable.  Think  of  the  influence  thus 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  delicate,  sensitive  brain  of 
that  ver\'  select  child.  A  mature  intellect  would 
have  given  way  under  a  far  less  strain. 

But  Cain  sur\^ived  it.  He  became  reconciled,  we 
will  say,  to  the  little  Abel.  They  played  and  shouted 
together  as  children  do  in  our  day,  racing  the  fields 
at  will,  growing  to  be  strong,  brave  little  animals, 
fierce,  impulsive,  and  aggressive,  especially  Cain. 
But  how  did  they  fare  aesthetically .?  no  academies 
no  Sunday  schools,  no  g}Tnnasiums,  nothing  to  direct 
and  balance  their  young  minds  1 


///A    /N^ANrj  V    {}h    LAIN.  ;(>; 

Their  parents  weie  plain  people,  caring  little  loi 
*^ociety,  we  imagine,  and  any  thing  but  dressy  in 
their  tastes.  There  were  no  tectures  in  those  days, 
remember,  no  concerts,  no  Young  Men's  Christian 
Associations,  to  make  life  one  long  festivity :  every 
hing  was  at  a  dead  level.  Probably  the  only  excite- 
'uents  Adam  and  Eve  had  were  thrashing  the 
children,  and  making  them  "behave."  Whatever 
sensation  Adam  may  have  made  among  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  the  only  public  movement  possible  to 
his  active-minded  wife  was  to  notify  all  mankind 
(i.e.,  little  Cain  and  Abel)  to  look  out,  for  Adam  was 
coming  Naturally  Abel,  being  the  baby,  the  last, 
and  tlierefore  the  best  and  dearest,  was  spared 
these  thrashmgs  and  public  excitements,  to  a  great 
extent;  and  so  the  burden  of  social  responsibility  fell 
upon  poor  little  Cain.  Who  shall  blame  him,  or 
wcmder  at  the  act,  if,  now  and  then,  he  indulged  in 
a  sly  kick  at  Abel .''  —  Abel,  the  goody  boy  of  the 
family,  the  "  rest  of  the  world,"  who  would  not  on 
any  account  be  as  naughty  and  noisy  as  brother  Caiii. 

Yet  who  of  us  can  say  that  any  such  kick  was 
administered  ?  At  that  early  stage  of  his  existence, 
the  controlling  mind  of  Cain  had  not  yet  given  way. 

It  is  no  light  matter  to  he  the  first  man  in  a  worlo 


like  •^his  .  and  Cain  certainly  was  pt -panng  tc  hoi  1 
that  position.  Adam,  his  father,  was  created  for  a 
purpose.  Like  Minen^a,  he  sprang  into  life  full 
grown  :  therefore,  though  we  may  safely  consider 
him  as  the  first  human  creature,  he  certainly  was  not 
the  first  man  ;  for  how  can  one  be  a  man  who  never 
v\'as  a  child  ? 

Here  we  have  another  argument  in  favor  of  Cain. 
i:,esides  having  no  bad  boys  to  pattern  after,  he  was 
under  the  constant  direction  of  his  parents,  who  cer- 
tainly, if  only  from  an  instinct  of  self-presentation, 
would  have  trained  him  never  to  be  passionate  or 
cruel,  vfb.'^n  in  his  right  mind.  To  be  sure,  they 
labced  under  a  peculiar  disadvantage.  Herben 
Spencer  himself,  coming  m-.o  iic  world  booted  and 
spurred,  with  no  childhood  to  look  back  upon,  might 
have  been  at  a  loss  how  to  manage  the  first  boy. 
We  must  never  forget  that  there  was  a  time  when 
mstinct  and  reflex  action  had  the  »tart  of  the  doctrine 
of  precedent  and  law  of  consequences  ;  when  the 
original  *'  1  told  you  so  !  "  had  yet  to  be  uttered. 
Even  the  warning  example  of  Cain  was  denied  to 
the  moral  advancing  of  this  first  boy. 

Still  the  sit^iation  had  its  advantages.  There  were 
Qo  fond  uncles  jz^d  aunts,  no  doting  grandparents. 


to  spoil  the  child,  and  confound  the  be^i  endeavors 
of  Adam  and  Eve.  Fortunately  for  the  boy,  Poor 
Richard's  Almanac  was  yet  unwritter* ;  George 
Washington's  little  hatchet  was  never  brandished 
before  his  infant  mind  ;  and  Casabianca  had  not  yet 
struck  his  attitude  on  the  burning  deck.  So  young 
Cain  was  spared  a  host  of  discouraging  influences. 
In  short,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  that,  in 
spite  of  depressing  conditions  and  surroundings,  he 
grew  up  to  be  at  least  a  better  man  than  his  father, 
who  never  had  any  bringing  up  at  all.  That  he  did 
not  kill  Abel  in  his  boyhood  is  proof  enough  of 
this.     There  was  discipline  somewhere. 

And,  in  the  name  of  developed  science  and  Chris- 
tian charity,  why  not,  in  considering  subsequent 
events,  make  due  allowance  for  whatever  phrenologi- 
cal excesses  the  cranium  of  young  Cain  may  have 
possessed?  An  intelligent  father  of  to-day,  figura- 
tively speaking,  can  take  his  child's  head  by  the 
forelock.  He  can  detect  what  is  within  it,  and 
counteract  proclivities.  If  an  ominous  bump  rise 
near  his  baby's  ear,  he  is  ready  to  check  combative- 
ness  with,  "  Mary  had  a  little  lamb,"  "Children,  you 
should  never  let,"  and  other  tender  ditties.  In  a 
word,    he    may    take    observations    from    rM«»     litilr 


lyo  TREASURE'TROVE^ 

mounts  of  character  on  his  child's  head,  and  so,  if  h* 
be  wise,  direct  the  young  life  into  safe  and  pleasai  t 
places.  But  Adam  knew  nothing  of  phrenology. 
Nor  have  we  great  reason  to  believe,  that,  if  he  haa 
known  of  it,  he  would  have  discreetly  followed  its 
ir.dications.  ChiMren  are  not  always  cherubs.  We 
ail  know  how  the  dearest  of  our  little  ones  some- 
times become  so  "  aggravating "  as  to  upset  our 
highest  philosophies.  Was  Adam  more  than  human  ? 
Say,  rather,  he  was  the  fountain-head  and  source  of 
human  passion. 

Again  :  both  children  were  the  victims  of  an  abid- 
ing privation.  They  had  the  natural  propensities  of 
childhood.  They  had  teeth,  stomach,  appetite,  all 
the  conditions,  we  will  say,  of  cholera  infantum, 
except  the  one  thing  for  which  they  secretly  yearned, 
—  green  apples.  These,  of  course,  were  not  to  be 
nad  in  that  house.  They  were  not  even  allowed  to 
be  mentioned  in  the  family.  Not  once  in  all  their 
lonely  childhood  were  those  children  comforted  wii^ 
apples.  Think  of  the  possibilities  of  inherited  appe- 
tite, and  then  conceive  of  the  effect  of  these  years 
of  unnatural  privation  1 

Again  :  who  shall  question  that  at  times  the  deep- 
est and  most  mysterious  gloom  per\'aded  that  house- 


hold  ?  Even  if  Adam  and  Eve  did  not  confide  ir, 
their  children,  their  oldest  boy  nnust  have  suspected 
that  something  was  wrong.  What  was  it  ?  —  the 
terrible  something  to  be  read,  and  yet  not  read,  in 
the  averted  faces  of  that  doomed  pair  ?  They  evi- 
dently had  seen  better  days.  Where?  WTiy  .^  How? 
What  had  become  of  some  vague  inheritance  that 
(Jain  felt  was  his  by  nght.?  Morning,  noon,  and 
night,  misty  and  terrible  suspicions  haunted  his 
young  mind.  Night  and  K-^on  and  morning,  the 
mystery  revolved  and  revolved  within  him.  Was 
this  conducive  to  sanity  ? 

Conceive  of  the  effect  of  the  animals  seen  in  the 
children's  daily  walks  I  There  were  no  well-ordered 
menagerie  specimens  then,  with  Barnum  or  Van 
Amburgh  in  the  background  as  a  foil  against  terror. 
Savage  beasts  glared  and  growled  and  roared  al 
every  turn.  Whatever  geologists  may  say  to  the  con- 
trary, we  must  insist  that  the  antediluvian  animals 
did  not  necessarily  antedate  Adam.  Taking  the 
mildest  'possible  view  of  the  case,  the  plesiosaurus, 
pterodactyl,  mastodon,  and  megatherium,  in  theii 
native  state,  could  not  have  been  soothing  obiects 
of  contemplation  to  the  infant  mind. 

Well,   the  boys   grew   up.     But    how   bleak    their 


172 


TREASURE-TRO  VE. 


young  manhood  !  No  patent-leather  boots,  no  swal- 
low-tails, no  standing-collars,  no  billiards,  no  girls  to 
woo,  no  fellows  to  flout  I  Nothing  to  do  when  the 
farm-work  was  over,  and  the  sheep  in  for  the  night, 
but  to  look  into  each  other's  untrimmed  faces,  with  a 
mute  "  Confounded  dull  1 "  more  terrible  than  rav- 
ing. 

Fathers  of  to-day,  would  your  own  children  pass 
unscathed  through  such  an  existence  as  this  ?  Your 
little  Abels  might  stand  it ;  but  how  about  your  little 
Cains  ?  Would  they  not  "  put  a  head  "  on  some- 
body? Would  they  not  become,  if  not  stark,  staring 
mad,  at  least  non  compos  myitis  /  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  these  considerations  are  not  to  be  lighly  passed 
by. 

In  judging  of  Cain,  look  at  the  situation.  On 
the  one  hand,  a  terrible  family  mystery,  no  schools, 
no  churches,  no  lectures,  no  society,  no  amusements, 
no  apples !  On  the  other  hand,  the  whole  burden 
of  humanity  borne  for  the  first  time,  paternal  disci- 
pline, undue  phrenological  developments,  monotonous 
emplo>Tnent,  antedilu\4an  monsters,  antediluvian 
parents,  and  an  antediluvian  good  brother,  in  whose 
mouth  butter  would  have  remained  intact  for  ages  ' 

Undoubtedly    that   brother    had    an  e.xasperating 


THE   INSANITY   OF   CAIN  173 

ssnile.  He  was  happy,  because  he  was  virtuous. 
I{e  had  a  way  of  forgiving  and  forgetting  that  for  a 
t-n>e  would  deprive  the  offender  of  reason  itself  , 
above  all,  he  had  a  cool,  collected  manner  of  his 
own,  added  to  a  chronic  desire  to  be  an  angel.  His 
offerings  always  fulfilled  the  conditions.  His  fires 
needed  only  to  be  lighted,  and  the  smoke  was  sure 
to  ascend  with  a  satisfied,  confident  curl  far  into  the 
sky. 

Cain's,  on  the  contrary,  refused  to  bum.  We  can 
see  it  all.  The  smoke  struggled  and  flopped.  It 
crept  along  the  ground,  and,  clinging  to  his  feet, 
wound  about  him  like  a  serpent  It  grew  black  and 
angr\\  shot  sideways  into  his  eyes,  blinding  and 
strangling  him. 

And  there  stood  Abel  beside  his  pile,  radiant,  sat- 
i-^fied,  wanting  to  be  an  angel  ! 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment.  The  pent-up, 
disorganizing  influences  of  a  lifetime  found  vent  in 
one  wild  moment  of  emotional  insanity.  Abel  was 
no  more  ! 

Why  dwell  upon  the  sickening  tragedy  ?  The 
world  is  familiar  with  its  sickening  details.  We 
shall  not  repeat  them  here  ;  nor  shall  we  question  tiie 
justice  of  the  punishment  that  came  to  Cain,  —  tlie 


r74  TREASURE^TROVR, 

remorse,  the  desolation,  the  sense  of  being  a  fugitive 
and  a  vagabond  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  had 
killed  his  brother,  and  the  penalty  must  be  paid. 
Sane  or  insane,  a  terrible  retribution  must  have 
overtaken  him.  But  how  about  his  guilt  ?  Would  it 
have  been  the  same  in  either  case  ?  Are  hereditary 
organism,  temperamental  excitability,  emotional 
frenzy,  not  to  be  considered  ?  No,  a  thousand 
times,  NO  !  What  "  competent  juror  "  would  acqui- 
esce in  such  a  proposition  ? 

"  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  1 "  cried  the  poor 
wretch  when  called  upon  to  name  the  whereabouts 
of  the  missing  Abel.  Who  can  doubt  here  that 
Cain,  like  any  lunatic  of  our  own  time,  believed  him- 
self alone  to  be  sane,  and  those  about  him  stark 
mad?  His  use  of  the  word  "keeper"  proves  this. 
True,  there  were  no  lunatic  asylums  in  that  day  ;  but 
if  the  first,  original  representative  "  inmate  "  was  at 
large,  where  should  or  could  the  first,  representative 
keeper  be  but  in  that  inmate's  diseased  imagination  ? 

Friends,  the  time  has  come  when  this  case  musf 
be  taken  up.  Its  mighty  issues  can  no  longer  be  set 
aside.  If  Cain  was  not  sane  at  the  moment  of  the 
killing,  the  stain  of  murder  must  be  wiped  from  his 
brow  now  and  forever.     This  tardy  justice   may  at 


THE   INSANITY  OF  CAIN.  175 

liiast  be  dc^e  him.  Our  children  and  our  children's 
<  hildren  must  be  v-iught  to  speak  of  Cain  the  ma;i- 
ttlaughterer,  Cain  the  mentally-excitable,  Cain  the 
peculiarly  circumstanced.  But  Cain  the  murderer  ? 
Never  1 

A  man's  own  testimony  shall  not  convict  nor  ac- 
quit him.  But  are  we  not  to  take  into  account,  as 
ndicative  of  his  state  of  mind,  actions  and  declara- 
tions coincident  with  the  commission  of  the  crime 
alleged  against  him  ?  If,  at  or  about  the  time  of  the 
fatal  deed,  there  was  positive  evidence  of  incohij- 
rence  —  what  then  ?  Witness  the  last  recorded  words 
of  Cain :  — 

EVERY    ONE   THAT    FINDETH    ME   SHALL    SLAV    Ml, 

Is  this  the  utterance  of  a  sane  mind  ?  Every  one 
that  findeth  me  shall  slay  me  ?  Gentlemen,  Cain, 
at  this  point,  was  not  only  crazy  —  he  was  the  crazi- 
est man  that  ever  existed.  No  ordinary  lunatic, 
however  preposterous  his  terrors,  expects  to  be 
killed  more  than  once.  But  to  this  poor  madman, 
retribution  suddenly  asstrTicd  a  hydra-headed  form. 
His  distracted  brain,  unconscious  that  Adam  was 
the  only  other  man  in  the  wide  world,  instantly 
c'/eated  an  immense  population.  He  saw  himself 
falling  again  and  again  by  the  strokes  of  successive 


70 


TREA  S  URE-  TRO  VE. 


issassins,  even  as  Abel  had  fallen  under  his  hand 
His  first  dazed  glimpse  of  death  expanded  and  in- 
tensified into  a  horror  never  since  conceived  by 
mind  of  man.  His  happiness  overthrown,  his  rea- 
son a  wreck,  a  prey  to  fears  that  stretched  before 
him  forever,  with  no  possible  hope  of  final  destruc- 
tion, —  the  only  consolation  is,  that  he  could  not 
foreknow  the  merciless  verdict  of  posterit}\  He  did 
not  recognize  in  himself  the  first  murderer.  Rather 
than  dream  of  such  ignominy  as  this,  was  it  not  bet- 
ter that  he  should  cry  in  his  ravings,  "  Every  one 
that  findeth  me  shall  slay  me  !  " 

We  leave  the  question  to  the  intelligence  and  the 
justice  of  this  faithful  and  enlightened  century. 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  AN  INTER- 
VIEWER. 

BY      yARK      TWAIN. 

HE  nervous,  dapper,  "peart'  young  man 
took  the  chair  I  offered  him,  and  said  he 
was  connected  with  "The  Daily  Thunder 
storm,"  and  added,  — 

"  Hoping   it's   no   harm,   I've    come    to    interview 
you." 

"  Come  to  what?" 
"  Intervirw  you." 

"Ah!  I  see.  Yes — yes.  Um  !  Yes  —  yes." 
I  was  not  feeling  bright  that  morning.  Indeed, 
my  powers  seemed  a  bit  under  a  cloud.  However, 
I  went  to  the  bookcase,  and,  when  I  had  been  lock- 
ing six  or  seven  minutes,  I  found  I  was  obliged  lo 
refer  to  the  young  man.  I  said,  — 
"  How  do  you  spell  it }  " 

•a  ir» 


1 78  TREASURE'TROVR, 

'"  Spell  what  ?  " 

'  Interview." 

"  Oh,  my  goodness !  What  do  you  want  to  spell 
rt  for  ?  " 

"  T  don't  want  to  spell  it :  I  want  to  see  what  it 
means." 

"  Well,  this  is  astonishing,  I  must  say.  /caa  tell 
vou  what  it  means,  if  you  —  if  you  "  — 

"  Oh,  all  right !  That  will  answer,  and  much 
obliged  to  you  too." 

"In,  in,  t  e  r,  ter,  inter  "  — 

"  Then  you  spell  it  with  an  If  " 

"  Why,  certainly  !  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  took  me  so  long  1 " 

"  Why,  my  ^ar  sir,  what  did  you  propose  to  spell 
It  with .? " 

"  Well,  I  ~  I  —  I  hardly  know.  I  had  the  Un- 
abridged ;  and  I  was  ciphering  around  in  the  back 
end,  hoping  I  might  tree  her  among  the  pictures. 
But  it's  a  very  old  edition." 

"  Why,  my  friend,  they  wouldn't  have  a  picture  of 

It  in  even  the  latest  e .     My  dear  sir,  I  beg  your 

pa. don,  I  mean  no  harm  in  the  world;  but  you  do 
not  look  as  —  as  —  intelligent  as  I  had  expected  you 
wc)u]d.     No  harm,  —  I  mean  no  harm  at  all." 


ENCOUNTER    WITH  AN  INTERVIEWER.      i7<j 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it  1  It  has  often  been  said, 
and  by  people  who  would  not  flatter,  and  who  could 
have  no  inducement  to  flatter,  that  I  am  quite  re- 
markable in  that  way.  Yes  —  yes:  they  always 
speak  of  it  with  rapture." 

"  I  can  easily  imagine  it  But  about  this  inter- 
view. You  know  it  is  the  custom,  now,  to  interview 
any  man  who  has  become  notorious." 

"  Indeed  !  I  had  not  heard  of  it  before.  It  must 
be  very  interesting.     What  do  you  do  it  with  ?  " 

"Ah,  well — well — well  —  this  is  disheartening. 
It  ought  to  be  done  with  a  club,  in  some  cases  ;  but 
customarily  it  consists  in  the  interviewer  asking 
questions,  and  the  interviewed  answering  them.  It 
is  all  the  rage  now.  Will  you  let  me  ask  you  certain 
questions  calculated  to  bring  out  the  salient  points 
of  your  public  and  private  history  ?  " 

"Oh,  with  pleasure, — with  pleasure.  I  have  a 
ver}'  bad  memory  j  but  I  hope  you  will  not  mind 
that.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  an  irregular  memory, 
singularly  irregular.  Sometimes  it  goes  in  a  gallop, 
and  then  again  it  will  be  much  as  a  fortnight  passing 
a  given  point.     This  is  a  great  grief  to  me." 

"  Oh  1  it  is  no  matter,  so  you  will  trv  to  do  the 
best  you  can." 


1 6  o  /  A'  A  A  S  L'K£'-1  i<OVE. 

"  I  will.     I  will  put  my  whole  mind  on  It.** 
"  Thanks  !     Are  you  ready  to  begin  ?  " 
"Ready." 

Question.     How  old  are  you  ? 

Answer,     Nineteen  in  June. 

Q.  Indeed !  I  would  have  taken  you  to  be 
thirty-five  or  six.     Where  were  you  bom  ? 

A.     In  Missouri. 

Q.     When  did  you  begin  to  write  ? 

A.     In  1836. 

Q.  Why,  how  could  that  be,  if  you  are  only  nine- 
teen now? 

A.     I  don't  know.  It  does  seem  curious,  somehow. 

Q.  It  does,  indeed.  Whom  do  you  consider  the 
most  remarkable  man  you  ever  met  ? 

A.    'Aaron  Burr. 

Q  But  you  never  could  have  met  Aaron  Burr,  if 
you  are  only  nineteen  years  — 

A.  Now,  if  you  know  more  about  me  than  I  do^ 
what  do  you  ask  me  for  ? 

Q.  Well  it  was  only  a  suggestion  ;  nothing  mc  e. 
How  did  you  happen  to  meet  Burr  ? 

A.  Well,  I  happened  to  be  at  his  funeral  one 
day  ;  and  he  asked  me  to  make  less  noise,  and  — 


ENCOUNTER    VVITfi  AN  INTERVIEWER.      i8i 

Q.  But,  good  heavens  1  If  you  were  at  his 
funeral,  he  must  have  been  dead  ;  and,  if  he  was 
dead,  how  could  he  care  whether  you  made  a  noise 
or  not  ? 

A.  I  don't  know.  He  was  always  a  particular 
kind  of  a  man  that  way. 

(2-  Still,  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  You  say 
tie  spoke  to  you,  and  that  he  was  dead. 

A.     I  didn't  say  he  was  dead, 

Q.     But  wasn't  he  dead  ? 

A.     Well,  some  said  he  was,  some  said  he  wasn't 

Q.     What  did  you  think  .? 

A.  Oh,  it  was  none  of  my  business  1  It  wasn't 
any  of  my  funeral. 

Q.  Did  you  —  However,  we  can  never  get  this 
iTiatter  straight.  Let  me  ask  about  something  else. 
What  was  the  date  of  your  birth  t 

A.     Monday,  Oct.  31,  1693. 

Q.  What !  Impossible  !  That  would  make  you 
a  hundred  and  eighty  years  old.  How  do  you 
account  for  that  ? 

A.     I  don't  account  for  it  at  all. 

Q.  But  you  said  at  first  you  were  only  nineteen, 
and  now  you  make  yourself  out  lO  be  one  hundred 
and  eighty.      It  is  an  awful  discrepancy. 


1 8?  Th'  h  A  .S  (  A' A-  /  h-U  VK. 

A.  Why,  have  you  noticed  that  ?  {Shakih^ 
hands.)  Many  a  time  it  has  seemed  to  me  like  a 
discrepancy ;  but  somehow  I  couldn't  make  up  my 
mind.     How  quick  you  notice  a  thing  1 

Q.  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,  as  far  as  it 
goes.  Had  you,  ot  have  you,  any  brothers  or 
sisters  ? 

A.  Eh  !  I  —  I  —  I  think  so,  —  yes  —  but  I  don't 
remember. 

Q.  Well,  that  is  the  most  extraordinary  state 
ment  I  ever  heard. 

A.     Why,  what  makes  you  think  that  ? 

Q,  How  could  I  think  otherwise?  Why,  look 
here!  Who  is  this  a  picture  of  on  the  wall?  Isn't 
that  a  brother  of  yours  ? 

A.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes  I  Now  you  remind  me  of 
it,  that  was  a  brother  of  mine.  That's  William, 
^/// we  called  him.     Poor  old  Bill  I 

Q.     Why,  is  he  dead,  then  ? 

A.  Ah,  well,  I  suppose  so.  We  never  could  tell. 
There  was  a  great  mystery  about  it. 

(2-  That  is  sad,  very  sad.  He  disappeared, 
then? 

A.  Well,  yes,  in  a  sort  of  general  way.  Ws 
buried  him. 


ENCOUNTER    WITH  AN  INTERVIEWER.      183 

Q.  Buried  him  !  Buried  him  without  knowing 
whether  he  was  dead  or  not  ? 

A.     Oh,  no  !     Not  that.     He  was  dead  enough. 

Q.  Well,  I  confess  that  I  can't  understand  this. 
It  you  buried  him,  and  you  knew  he  was  dead  — 

A.     No,  no  1    We  only  thought  he  was. 

Q.     Oh,  I  see  1     He  came  to  life  ag?in  ? 

A.     I  bet  he  didn't  1 

Q.  Well,  1  never  heard  any  thing  like  this. 
Somebody  was  dead.  Somebody  was  buried.  Now, 
where  was  the  mystery  ? 

A.  Ah,  that's  just  it  1  That's  it  exactly  I  You 
see,  we  were  twins,  —  defunct  and  I  ;  and  we  got 
mixed  in  the  bath-tub  when  we  were  only  two  weeks 
old,  and  one  of  us  was  drowned.  But  we  didn't 
know  which.  Some  think  it  was  Bill  ;  some  think  it 
was  me. 

Q.     Well,  that  is  remarkable.    What  do  you  think  ? 

A.  Goodness  knows  I  I  would  give  whole 
worlds  to  know.  This  solemn,  tliLS  awful  mystery 
has  cast  a  gloom  over  my  whole  life.  But  I  will  leli 
you  a  secret  now,  which  I  never  have  revealed  to 
any  creature  before.  One  of  us  had  a  peculiar 
mark,  a  large  mole  on  the  back  of  his  left  hand ; 
Lliat  was  me.  That  child  was  the  one  that  was 
drowned. 


Q.  Very  well,  then,  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any 
mystery  about  it,  after  all. 

A.  You  don't?  Well,  /do.  Anyway,  I  don'- 
see  how  they  could  ever  have  been  such  a  blunder- 
ing lot  as  to  go  and  bury  the  w^rong  child.  But, 
'sh !  don't  mention  it  where  the  family  can  hear 
of  it.  Heaven  knows  they  have  heart-breaking 
troubles  enough  without  adding  this. 

Q.  Well,  I  believe  I  have  got  material  enough 
for  the  present;  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you  for  the  pains  you  have  taken.  But  I  was  a 
good  deal  interested  in  that  account  Of  Aaron 
Burr's  funeral.  Would  you  mind  telling  rre 
what  particular  circumstance  it  was  that  mace 
you  think  Burr  was  such  a  remarkable  man? 

A.  Oh,  it  was  a  mere  trifle  !  Not  one  man  in 
fifty  would  have  noticed  it  at  all.  When  the 
sermon  was  over,  and  the  procession  all  ready 
to  start  for  the  cemetery,  and  the  body  all 
arranged  nice  in  the  hearse,  he  said  he  wanted 
to  take  a  last  look  at  the  scenery  ;  and  so  he  got 
up,  and  rode  with  the  driver. 


Then  the  young  man  reverently  withdrew.  He 
was  very  pleasant  company;  cind  I  was  sorrv  to 
see  him  cro. 


THE  PAINTER'S  BARGAIN. 


•sr  WnXlAM   MAJUQPEACE  THACKCKAT, 


IMON  GAMBaUG£  was  dbe  coo  of  Sok/ 

:  v^    Gamboa^;  and,  as  all  tbe  «orll : 

'  :  th  father  and  son  wcfe  ascoasisb' 

t    tbar   profession.    SolUxnoo 

Jch  notio^  boogbt ;   at:) 

i  paimrid  poftraits  to 

'^  sif  to  lum, 

.^ds  a  ycarbf  his 

:  a^  <jf  tweuljf  at 

eltf  bj  taking 

"•ise  noen 

:;e^      S^ 

_.j3ter(tovhiOts 

:.3  qtost  ihe  mea: 

—  iMch  was  tfci-: 

'  'A 


/86  TREASURE-TROVE. 

her  father  said,  as  ever  a  man  would  wish  to  stick  t 
knife  into.  She  had  sat  to  the  painter  for  all  sorts 
of  characters  ;  and  the  curious  who  possess  any  of 
Gambouge's  pictures  will  see  her  as  Venus,  Minerva, 
Madonna,  and  in  numberless  other  characters .  Por- 
*-'ait  of  a  lady  —  Griskinissa ;  Sleeping  Nymph  — 
Griskinissa,  without  a  rag  of  clothes,  lying  in  a 
forest ;  Maternal  Solicitude  —  Griskinissa  again,  with 
young  Master  Gambouge,  who  was  by  this  time  the 
offspring  of  their  affections. 

The  lady  brought  the  painter  a  handsome  little 
lortune  of  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  ;  and,  as 
long  as  this  sum  lasted,  no  woman  could  be  moie 
lovely  or  loving.  But  want  began  speedily  to  attack 
their  little  household  ;  bakers'  bills  were  unpaid ; 
rent  was  due,  and  the  reckless  landlord  gave  no 
quarter;  and,  to  crown  the  whole,  her  father,  un- 
natural butcher  I  suddenly  stopped  the  supplies  of 
mutton-chops,  and  swore  that  the  dauber,  her  hus- 
band,, sliould  have  no  more  of  his  wares.  At  first 
they  embraced  tenderly,  and  kissing,  and  crying 
over  their  little  infant,  vowed  to  Heaven  that  they 
would  do  without ;  but  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
(iriskinissa  grew  peckish,  and  poor  Simon  pawned 
his  best  coaL 


THE   PAINTER'S  PA  KG  A IX.  -     187 

When  this  habit  of  pawning  is  discovered,  it  ap- 
pears to  the  poor  a  kind  of  Eldorado.  Gambougt 
and  his  wife  were  so  delighted,  that  they,  in  tht 
course  of  a  month,  made  away  with  her  gold  chain 
her  great  warming-pan,  his  best  crimson  plush  inex 
pressibles,  two  wigs,  a  wash-hand  basin  and  ewer 
fire-irons,  window-curtains,  crockery,  and  arm-chairs 
Griskinissa  said,  smiling,  that  she  had  found  a 
second  father  in  her  unch, —  a  base  pun,  which 
showed  that  her  mind  was  corrupted,  and  that  she 
was  no  longer  the  tender,  simple  Griskinissa  of  other 
days. 

1  am  sorry  to  say  that  she  had  taken  to  drinking  : 
she  swallowed  the  warming-pan  in  the  course  of 
three  days,  and  fuddled  herself  one  whole  evening 
with  the  crimson  plush  breeches. 

Drinking  is  the  devil,  —  the  father,  that  is  to  say, 
of  all  vices.  Griskinissa's  face  and  her  mind  grew 
ugly  together  :  her  good  humor  changed  to  bilious, 
bitter  discontent ;  her  pretty,  fond  epithets,  to  foul 
abuse  and  swearing ;  her  tender  blue  eyes  grew 
watery  and  blear;  and  the  peach-color  on  her  cheeks 
fled  from  its  old  habitation,  and  crowded  up  into  her 
nose,  where,  with  a  number  of  pimples,  it  stuck  fast. 
Add    to    this    a    dirt}',    draggle-tailed  chintz  ;    long, 


1 88  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

matted  hair,  wandering  into  her  eyes,  and  over  he^ 
lean  shoulders,  which  were  once  so  snowy,  —  and  you 
have  the  picture  of  drunkenness  and  Mrs.  Simon 
Garabouge. 

Poor  Simon,  who  had  been  a  gay,  lively  fellow 
enough  in  the  days  of  his  better  fortune,  was  com- 
pletely cast  down  by  his  present  ill  luck,  and  cowed 
by  the  ferocity  of  his  wife.  From  morning  till  night, 
the  neighbors  could  hear  this  woman's  tongue,  and 
understand  her  doings :  bellows  went  skimming 
across  the  room ;  chairs  were  flumped  down  on  the 
floor ;  and  poor  Gambouge's  oil  and  varnish  pots 
went  clattering  through  the  windows,  or  down  the 
stairs.  The  baby  roared  all  day ;  and  Simon  sat 
pale  and  idle  in  a  corner,  taking  a  small  sup  at  ♦.he 
brandy-bottle,  when  Mrs.  Gambouge  was  out  of  the 
way. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  disconsolately  at  his  easel, 
furbishing  up  a  picture  of  his  wife  in  the  character 
of  Peace,  which  he  had  commenced  a  year  before, 
he  was  more  than  ordinarily  desperate,  and  cursed 
and  swore  in  the  most  pathetic  manner.  "  Oh,  mis- 
erable fate  of  genius  !  "  cried  he.  "  Was  I,  a  man 
of  such  commanding  talents,  born  for  this.? — to  be 
bullied  by   a  fiend  of  a  wife  ;  to   have    my  master 


rHfi.     /'A/X  /hh-S    HAk'i.Al.V.  189 

•pieces  neglected  by  ihe  world,  or  sold  only  for  a  few 
jiieces?  Cursed  be  the  love  which  has  misled  me! 
rursed  be  the  art  which  is  unworthy  of  me  1  Let  me 
dig  or  steal  ;  let  me  sell  myself  as  a  soldier,  or  sell 
myself  to  the  Devil,  —  I  should  not  be  more  wretched 
than  I  am  now." 

"  Quite  the  contrary,"  cried  a  small,  cheery 
voice. 

"  What  1  "  exclaimed  Gambouge,  trembling  and 
surprised.  "  Who's  there  ?  —  where  are  you  ?  —  who 
are  you  ?  " 

**  You  were  just  speaking  of  me,"  said  the  voice. 

Gambouge  held  in  his  left  hand  his  palette,  in 
his  right  a  bladder  of  crimson  lake,  which  he  was 
about  to  squeeze  out  upon  the  mahogany.  "  Where 
are  you  1  "  cried  he  again. 

"  S-q-u-e-e-z-e  I  "  exclaimed  the  little  voice. 

Gambouge  picked  out  the  nail  from  the  bladder, 
and  gave  a  squeeze  ;  when,  as  sure  as  I  am  living,  * 
little  imp  spurted  out  from  the  hole  upon  the  palette, 
and  began  laughing  in  the  most  singular  and  oil" 
manner. 

When  first  bom,  he  was  little  bigger  than  a  tad 
pole  ;  then  he  grew  to  be  as  big  as  a  mouse  ;  the? 
he  arrived  at  the  size  of  a  cat ;  and  then  he  jumpe« 


190  TREASURE-TROVE, 

off  the  palette,  and,  turning  head  over  heels,  asked 
the  poor  painter  what  he  wanted  with  him. 


The  strange  little  animal  twisted  head  over  heels, 
and  fixed  himself  at  last  upon  the  top  of  Gambouge's 
easel,  smearing  out,  with  his  heels,  all  the  white 
and  vermilion  which  had  just  been  laid  on  to  the 
allegoric  portrait  of  Mrs.  Gambouge. 

"  What  1  "  exclaimed  Simon,  "  is  it  the  "  — 

"  Exactly  so.  Talk  of  me,  you  know,  and  I  am 
always  at  hand ;  besides,  I  am  not  half  so  black  as- 
I  am  painted,  as  you  will  see  when  you  know  me  a 
little  better." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  the  painter,  '*  it  is  a  very 
singular  surprise  which  you  have  given  me.  To  tell 
truth,  I  did  not  even  believe  in  your  existence." 

The  little  imp  put  on  a  theatrical  air,  and,  with 
one  of  Mr.  Macready's  best  looks,  said,  — 

"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Gambogio, 
Than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy." 

Gambouge,  being  a  Frenchman,  did  not  under- 
stand the  quotation,  but  felt  somehow  strangely  and 
singularly  interested  in  the  conversation  of  his  nev 
friend. 


THK    PAINTItR'S  BARGAIN.  191 

Diabolus  continued,  "  You  are  a  man  of  merit, 
a  nd  want  money ;  you  will  starve  on  your  merit  ; 
you  can  only  get  money  from  me.  Come,  my  friend, 
how  much  is  it  ?  I  ask  the  easiest  interest  in  the 
ur)rld  :  old  Mordecai,  the  usurer,  has  maxle  you  pay 
luice  as  heavily  before  now, —  nothing  but  the  signa- 
ture of  a  bond,  which  is  a  mere  ceremony,  and  the 
trnffisfer  of  an  article  which  in  itself  is  a  supposition, 
—  a  vauleless,  windy,  uncertain  property  of  yours, 
called  by  some  poet  of  your  own,  I  think,  an  ani- 
rnu/d,  7'ai^ulii,  blandula.  Bah  1  there  is  no  use  beat- 
ing about  the  bush :  I  mean  a  soul.  Come,  let  me 
have  it  :  you  know  you  will  sell  it  some  other  way, 
and  not  get  such  good  pay  for  your  bargain."  And, 
having  made  this  speech,  the  Devil  pulled  out  from 
his  fob  a  sheet  as  big  as  a  double  "Times,"  only 
there  was  a  diHerent  stamp  in  the  corner. 

it  is  useless  and  tedious  to  describe  law  docu- 
ments. Lawyers  only  love  to  read  them  ;  ai  d  they 
have  as  good  in  Chitty  as  any  that  are  to  be  found  in 
the  Devil's  own,  so  nobly  have  the  apprentices  emu- 
lated the  skill  of  the  master.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
poor  Gambouge  read  over  the  paper,  and  signed  it 
He  was  to  have  all  he  wished  for  seven  years,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  time  was  to  become  the  property 


1 91  rk  EA  S  URE-  TRO  VE. 

of  the ;  grobibcb  that,  during  the  course  of  the 

seven  years,  ever}-  single  wish  which  he  might  form 
should  be  gratified  by  the  other  of  the  contracting 
parties  :  otherwise  the  deed  became  null  and  non- 
avenue,  and  Gambouge  should  be  left  "  to  go  to  the 
his  own  way." 

"  You  will  never  see  me  again,"  said  Diabolus,  in 
shaking  hands  with  poor  Simon,  on  whose  fingers  he 
left  such  a  mark  as  is  to  be  seen  at  this  day,  — 
''  never,  at  least,  unless  you  want  me  ;  for  every  thing 
you  ask  will  be  performed  in  the  most  quiet  and 
ever}'-day  manner  :  believe  me,  it  is  best  and  most 
gentlemanlike,  and  avoids  any  thing  like  scandal. 
But  if  you  set  me  about  any  thing  which  is  extraor- 
dinar}%  and  out  of  the  course  of  nature,  as  it  were 
come  I  must,  you  know ;  and  of  this  you  are  tht 
best  judge."  So  saying,  Diabolus  disappeared  ;  but 
whether  up  the  chimney,  through  the  keyhole,  or  any 
other  aperture  or  contrivance,  nobody  knows.  Simon 
Gambouge  was  left  in  a  fever  of  delight,  as.  Heaven 
forgive  me  !  I  believe  many  a  worthy  man  would 
be,  if  he  were  allowed  an  opporttmity  to  make  a 
similar  bargain. 

'■  Heigho  !  "  said  Simon,  "I  wonder  whether  this 
be  a  reality  or  a  dreain.     1  ain  sober,  I  know ;  for 


THE  PAINTER'S  BARGA/A. 


03 


ho  will  give  me  credit  for  the  means  to  be  drunk  ? 
sind,  as  for  sleeping,  I'm  too  hungry  for  that.  I 
•vish  I  could  see  d  capon  and  a  bottle  of  white 
\^ine." 

"  Monsieur  Simon!  "  cried  a  voice  on  the  land 
iig-place. 

"  Cfst  id"  quoth  Gambouge,  hastening  to  open 
the  door.  He  did  so  ;  and,  lo  I  there  was  a  rcsiau 
rateur^s  boy  at  the  c!ocr,  supporting  a  tray,  a  tin- 
covered  dish,  and  plates  on  the  same  ;  and  by  ii> 
side  £  tall,  amber-colored  flask  of  Sauterne. 

"  I  am  the  new  boy,  sir,"  exclaimed  this  youth  od 
entering;  *'but  I  believe  this  is  the  right  door,  and 
you  asked  for  these  things." 

Simon  grinned,  and  said,  *'  Certaini^,  I  did  ask  for 
these  things."  But  such  was  the  effect  which  his 
interview  with  the  demon  had  had  on  his  innocent 
mind,  that  he  took  them,  although  he  knew  that  they 
were  for  old  Simon,  the  Jew  dandy,  who  was  mad 
after  an  opera-girl,  and  lived  on  the  floor  beneath. 

"  Go,  my  boy,"  he  said  :  "  it  is  good.  Call  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  remove  the  plates  and  glasses." 

The  little  waiter  trotted  down  stairs  ;  and  Simon 
sat  greedily  down  to  discuss  the  capon  and  the  white 
vine.  He  bolted  the  legs  ;  he  devoured  the  wings  • 
'3 


194  TREASURE-TROVE. 

he  cut  every  morsel  of  flesh  from  the  breast,  season 
ing  his  repast  with  pleasant  araughts  of  wine,  and 
caring  nothing  for  the  inevitable  bill,  which  was  to 
follow  all. 

"  Ye  gods  !  "  said  he  as  he  scraped  away  at  the 
backbone,  "  what  a  dinner  1  what  wine  I  and  how 
gayly  sensed  up  too  !  "  There  were  silver  forks  and 
spoons  ;  and  the  remnants  of  the  fowl  were  upon  a 
silver  dish.  "Why,  the  money  for  this  dish  and 
these  spoons,"  cried  Simon,  "would  keep  me  and 
Mrs.  G.  a  month !  I  wish,"  —  and  here  Simon 
whistled,  and  turned  round  to  see  that  nobody  was 
peeping,  —  "I  wish  the  plate  were  mine." 

Oh  the  horrid  progress  of  the  Devil !  "  Here  thev 
are,"  thought  Simon  to  himself:  "why  should  not  I 
take  them  1 "  And  take  them  he  did.  "  Detection/' 
said  he,  "  is  not  so  bad  as  starvation  ;  and  I  wou-  i 
as  soon  live  at  the  galleys  as  live  with  Madame 
Gambouge." 

So  Gambouge  shovelled  dish  and  spoons  into  the 
flap  of  his  surtout,  and  ran  down  stairs  as  if  the 
Devil  were  behind  him  —  as,  indeed,  he  was. 

He  immediately  made  for  the  house  of  his  old 
friend  the  pawnbroker,  that  establishment  which  is 
called  in  France  the  Mont  de  Piet^.     "  I  am  obligen 


THh    PAINTER'S  BARGAIN.  195 

Xft  come  to  you  again,  my  old  friend,"  said  Simon, 
*•  with  some  family  plate,  of  which  I  beseech  you  to 
tjJce  care." 

The  pawnbroker  smiled  as  he  examined  the  goods. 
"  I  can  give  you  nothing  upon  them,"  said  he. 

"  What,"  cried  Simon,  "  not  even  the  worth  of  the 
silver?" 

"  No.  I  could  buy  them  at  that  price  at  tlie  Caf^ 
Morisot,  Rue  de  la  Verrerie,  where,  I  suppose,  you 
got  them  a  little  cheaper."  And,  so  saying,  he 
showed  to  the  guilt-stricken  Gambouge  how  the 
name  of  that  coffee-house  was  inscribed  upon  every 
one  of  the  articles  which  he  had  wished  to  pawn. 

The  effects  of  conscience  are  dreadful  indeed } 
Oh  !  how  fearful  is  retribution,  how  deep  is  despair, 
how  bitter  is  remorse  for  crime  —  luhen  crime  is 
found  out! — otherwise,  conscience  takes  matters 
much  more  easily.  Gambouge  cursed  his  fate,  and 
swore  henceforth  to  be  virtuous. 

"  But  hark  ye,  my  friend,"  continued  the  honest 
broker,  "  there  is  no  reason  why,  because  I  cannot 
lend  upon  these  things,  I  should  not  buy  them  :  they 
will  do  to  melt,  if  for  no  other  purpose.  Will  you 
have  half  the  money  ?  —  speak,  or  I  peach." 

Simon's  resolves  about  virtue  were  soon  dissipated 


196  TRhASUKE-TROVE. 

instantaneously.  "  Give  me  half,"  he  said,  "  and  let 
me  go.  What  scoundrels  are  these  pawnbrokers  i  '* 
ejaculated  he,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  accursed  shop, 
'  seeking  every  pretext  to  rob  the  poor  man  out  of 
his  hard-won  gain." 

When  he  had  marched  forwards  for  a  street  or 
two,  Gambouge  counted  the  money  which  he  had 
received,  and  found  that  he  was  in  possession  of  no 
less  than  a  hundred  francs.  It  was  night,  as  he 
reckoned  out  his  equivocal  gains ;  and  he  counted 
them  at  the  light  of  a  lamp.  He  looked  up  at  the 
lamp,  in  doubt  as  to  the  course  he  should  next  pur- 
sue :  upon  it  was  inscribed  the  simple  number,  152, 
"  A  gambling-house,"  thought  Gambouge.  "  I  wish 
I  had  half  the  money  that  is  now  on  the  table  up 
stairs." 

He  mounted,  as  many  a  rogue  has  done  before 
him,  and  found  half  a  hundred  persons  busy  at  the 
table  of  rouge  et  noir.  Gambouge's  five  napoleons 
looked  insignificant  by  the  side  of  the  heaps  which 
were  around  him ;  but  the  effects  of  the  wine,  the 
thief,  and  of  the  detection  by  the  pawnbroker,  were 
upon  him,  and  he  threw  down  his  capital  stoutlv 
upon  the  o  o. 

It  is  a  dangerous  spot  that  o  o,  or  double  zero  ; 


THE  PAINTER'S  BARGAIN.  1 97 

but  to  Simon  it  was  more  lucky  than  to  the  rest  of 
the  world.  The  ball  went  spinning  round, — in  "  its 
predestined  circle  rolled,"  as  Shelley  has  it,  after 
Goethe, — and  plumped  down  at  last  in  the  double 
zero.  One  hundred  and  thirty-five  gold  napoleons 
(louis  they  were  then)  were  counted  out  to  the  de- 
lighted painter.  "O  Diabolus!  "  cried  he,  "  now 
ic  is  that  I  begin  to  believe  in  thee!  Don't  talk 
about  merit,"  he  cried;  "talk  about  fortune.  Tel.! 
me  not  about  heroes  for  the  future:  tell  me  of 
z crocs P  And  down  went  twenty  napoleons  more 
upon  the  o. 

The  Devil  was  certainly  in  the  ball:  round  it 
twirled,  and  dropped  into  zero  as  naturally  as  a 
duck  pops  its  head  into  a  pond.  Our  friend  received 
five  hundred  pounds  for  his  stake;  and  the crouj^iers 
and  lookers-on  began  to  stare  at  him. 

There  were  twelve  thousand  pounds  on  the  table. 
SufHce  it  to  say  that  Simon  won  half,  and  retired 
from  the  Palais  Royal  with  a  thick  bundle  of  bank- 
notes crammed  into  his  dircy  three-cornered  hat. 
lie  had  been  but  half  an  hour  in  the  place,  and  he 
had  won  the  revenues  of  a  prince  for  half  a  year. 

Gambouge,  as  soon  as  he  felt  tliat  he  was  a  capital- 
ist, and  that  he  had  a  stake  in  the  countrv,  discov- 


198  TREASURE-TROVE. 

ered  that  he  was  an  altered  man.  He  repented  <  1! 
his  foul  deed,  and  his  base  purloining  of  the  rit- 
tauratrar's  plate.  "  Oh,  honesty !  "  he  cried,  "  how 
unworthy  is  an  action  like  this  of  a  man  who  ha*' 
a  propert}'  like  mine  !  "  So  he  went  back  to  the 
pawnbroker  with  the  gloomiest  face  imaginable. 
"  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  have  sinned  against  all 
that  I  hold  most  sacred  :  I  have  forgotten  my  family 
and  my  religion.  Here  is  thy  money.  In  the  name 
of  Heaven,  restore  me  the  pUte  which  I  have 
wrongfully  sold  thee." 

But  the  pawnbroker  grinned,  and  said,  "Nay^ 
Mr.  Gambouge,  I  will  sell  that  plate  for  a  thousand 
francs  to  you,  or  I  will  never  sell  it  at  all." 

"  Well,"  cried  Gambouge,  "thou  art  an  inexorable 
ruffian,  Troisboules  ;  but  I  will  give  thee  all  I  am 
worth."  And  here  he  produced  a  billet  of  five  hun- 
dred francs.  "  Look,"  said  he,  "  this  money  is  all  I 
own :  it  is  the  payment  of  two  years'  lodging.  To 
raise  it,  I  have  toiled  for  many  months ;  and,  failing 
I  have  been  a  criminal.  O  Heaven !  I  stole  that 
plate,  that  I  might  pay  my  debt,  and  keep  my  dear 
wif^  from  wandering  houseless.  But  I  cannot  bear 
this  load  of  ignominy :  I  will  go  to  the  person  to 
whom  I  did  wrong.  I  will  starve  ;  I  will  confes^'  ■ 
but  I  will,  \  will  do  right !  " 


THE   PAINTER'S  RARGA/N.  199 

The  broker  was  alarmed.  "  Give  me  my  note  !  " 
he  cned  :  "  here  is  the  plate." 

'*  Give  me  an  acquittal  first,"  cried  Simon,  almost 
broken-hearted.  "  Sign  me  a  paper,  and  the  money 
is  yours."  So  Troisboules  wrote,  according  to  Gam 
bouge's  dictation,  "  Received,  for  thirteeen  ounces 
of  plate,  t^venty  pounds." 

"  Monster  of  iniquity  !  "  cried  the  painter,  *'  fiend 
of  wickedness  !  thou  art  caught  in  thine  own  snares. 
Hast  thou  not  sold  me  five  pounds'  worth  of  plate 
for  twenty  ?  Have  I  it  not  in  my  pocket  ?  Art  thou 
not  a  convicted  dealer  in  stolen  goods  ?  Yield, 
scoundrel,  yield  thy  money,  or  I  will  bring  thee  to 
justice !  " 

The  frightened  pawnbroker  bullied  and  battled  for 
a  while ;  but  he  gave  up  his  money  at  last,  and  the 
dispute  ended.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  Diabolus 
had  rather  a  hard  bargain  in  the  wily  Gambouge. 
He  had  taken  a  victim  prisoner ;  but  he  had  assuredly 
caught  a  Tartar.  Simon  now  returned  home,  and, 
to  do  him  justice,  paid  the  bill  for  his  dinner,  and 
restored  the  plate. 

And  now  1  may  add  (and  the  reader  should  ponder 
upon  this  as  a  profound  picture  of  human  life),  that 


200  rh'hAsi'RH- r Rcn  h. 

Gambouge,  since  he  had  grown  rich,  grew  likewise 
abundantly  moral.  He  was  a  most  exemplar}* 
father.  He  fed  the  poor,  and  was  loved  by  them. 
He  scorned  a  base  action.  And  I  have  no  doubt 
that  Mr.  Thurtell,  or  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Green- 
acre,  in  similar  circumstances,  would  have  acted  like 
the  worthy  Simon  Gambouge. 

There  was  but  one  blot  upon  his  character,  —  he 
hated  Mrs.  Gambouge  worse  than  ever.  As  he  grew 
more  benevolent,  she  grew  more  virulent :  when  he 
went  to  plays,  she  went  to  Bible  societies,  and  vice 
versa  :  in  fact,  she  led  him  such  a  life  as  Xantippe 
led  Socrates,  or  as  a  dog  leads  a  cat  in  the  same 
kitchen.  With  all  his  fortune,  —  for,  as  may  be 
supposed,  Simon  prospered  in  all  worldly  things,  — 
he  was  the  most  miserable  dog  in  the  whole  city  of 
Paris.  Only  in  the  point  oi  drinking  did  he  and 
Mrs.  Simon  agree  ;  and  for  many  years,  and  during 
a  considerable  number  of  hours  in  each  day,  he  thus 
dissipated  partially  his  domestic  chagrin.  O 
philosophy !  we  may  talk  of  thee  ;  but  except  at 
the  bottom  of  the  wine-cup,  where  thou  liest  like 
truth  in  a  well,  where  shall  we  find  thee  t 

He  lived  so  long,  and  in  his  worldly  matters  pros- 
pered so  much,  there  was  so  little  sign  of  devilment 


in  the  accompiishniciu  ot  hs  wishes,  and  tne  in- 
crease of  his  prosperity,  tliat  Sinrion,  al  the  end  ot 
six  years,  began  to  doubt  whether  he  had  made  any 
such  bargain  at  all  as  that  which  we  have  described 
at  the  commencement  of  this  histor}'.  He  had 
2:rown,  as  we  said,  ver}'  pious  and  moral.  He  went 
regularly  to  mass,  and  had  a  confessor  into  the 
bargain.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  consult  that 
reverend  gentleman,  and  to  lay  before  him  the 
whole  matter. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think,  holy  sir,"  said  Gam- 
bouge,  after  he  had  concluded  his  histor}',  and 
shown  how,  in  some  miraculous  way,  all  his  desires 
were  accomplished,  "  that,  after  all,  this  demon  wa^ 
no  other  than  the  creation  of  my  own  bram,  heated 
by  the  effects  of  that  bottle  of  wine,  the  cause  of  my 
crime  and  my  prosperity." 

The  confessor  agreed  with  him  ;  and  they  walked 
out  of  church  comfortably  together,  and  entered 
'.ftei wards  a  cafe^  where  they  sat  down  to  refresh 
hemselves  after  the  fatigues  of  their  devotion. 

.A.  respectable  old  gentleman,  with  a  number  ot 
orders  at  his  button-hole,  presently  entered  the 
room,  and  sauntered  up  to  the  marble  table,  before 
.vhich  reposed  Simon  and  his  clerical  friend.       '  blx 


202  TREASURE-TROVE. 

cuse  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  as  he  took  a  place 
opposite  them,  and  began  reading  the  papers  of  the 
day. 

"  Bah  ! "  said  he  at  last :  "  sont-ils  grands  ces 
journaux  Anglais  ?  Look,  sir !  "  he  said,  handing 
over  an  immense  sheet  of  "  The  Times "  to  Mr. 
GambDuge,  "  was  ever  any  thing  so  monstrous  ?  " 

Gambouge  smiled  politely,  and  examined  the 
proffered  page.  "  It  is  enormous,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
I  do  not  read  English." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  man  with  the  orders,  "  look  closer 
at  it,  Signor  Gambouge :  it  is  astonishing  how  easy 
the  language  is." 

Wondering,  Simon  took  the  sheet  of  paper.  He 
turned  pale  as  he  looked  at  it,  and  began  to  curse 
the  ices  and  the  waiter.  "  Come,  M.  I'Abb^,"  he 
said  :  "  the  heat  and  glare  of  this  place  are  intol- 
erable." 

The  stranger  r6se  with  them.  "  Au  plaisir  de 
vous  revoir,  mon  cher  monsieur,"  said  he.  "  I  do 
not  mind  speaking  before  the  abb^  here,  who  will 
be  my  very  good  friend  one  of  these  days  ;  but  I 
thought  it  necessary  to  refresh  your  menio<ry  con- 
cerning   our    little    business-transaction    six    years 


r/ZA     /'A  [XI  >i  R   .s     HA  K  (,A  i.  V.  i  ">  •> 

Since,  and  could  not  exactly  talk  of  it  at  church,  tl* 
you  may  fancy." 

Simon  Gambojge  had  seen,  in  the  double-sheeted 
"Times,"  the  paper  signed  by  himself,  which  the 
little  Devil  had  pulled  out  of  his  fob. 

There  was  no  doubt  on  the  subject ;  and  Simon, 
v\ho  had  but  a  year  to  live,  grew  more  pious  and 
more  careful  than  ever.  He  had  consultations  with 
all  the  doctors  of  the  Sorbonne,  and  all  the  lawyers 
of  the  Palais.  But  his  magnificence  grew  as  weari- 
some to  him  as  his  poverty  had  been  before  ;  and 
uot  one  of  the  doctors  whom  he  consulted  could  give 
h'm  a  pennyworth  of  consolation. 

Ther  he  grew  outrageous  in  his  demands  upon 
the  Devil,  and  put  him  to  all  sorts  of  absurd  anc 
ridiculous  tasks  ;  but  they  were  all  punctually  p*^r 
formed,  until  Simon  could  invent  no  new  ones,  and 
the  Devil  sat  all  day  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket* 
doing  nothing. 

One  day  Simon's  confessor  came  bounding  into 
the  room  with  the  greatest  glee.  "My  friend,"  says 
he,  "1  have  it!  Eureka  I  —  I  have  found  it.  Send 
the  pope  a  hundred  thousand  crowns,  build  a  ne^A 
Jesuit  college  at  Rome,  give  a  hundred  gold  candle- 
sticks to  St.  Peter:,  and  tell  his  Holint'^  yoi  will 
double  all.  if  he  will  snvt  "ou  absolution." 


204  TREASURE  TROVE. 

Gambouge  caught  at  the  notion,  and  hurried  off 
a  courier  to  Rome,  ventre  a  terre.  His  Holiness 
agreed  to  the  request  of  the  petition,  and  sent  him 
an  absolution,  written  out  with  his  own  fist,  and  all 
in  due  form. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  foul  fiend,  I  defy  you!  Arise, 
Diabolus!  your  contract  is  not  worth  a  jot.  The 
pope  has  absolved  me,  and  I  am  safe  on  the  road 
to  salvation."  In  a  fervor  of  gratitude  he  clasped 
the  hand  of  his  confessor,  and  embraced  him. 
Tears  of  joy  ran  down  the  cheeks  of  these  good 
men. 

They  heard  an  inordinate  roar  of  laughter;  and 
there  was  Diabolus,  sitting  opposite  to  them,  hold- 
ing his  sides  and  lashing  his  tail  about,  as  if  he 
would  have  gone  mad  with  glee. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  what  nonsense  is  this!  do  you 
suppose  I  care  about  that  P "  and  he  tossed  the 
pope's  missive  into  a  corner.  "  M.  I'Abbe  knows," 
he  said,  bowing  and  grinning,  "  that,  though  the 
pope's  paper  may  pass  current  here^  it  is  not  worth 
twopence  in  our  country.  What  do  I  care  about 
the  pope's  absolution?  You  might  just  as  well  be 
absolved  by  your  under-butler." 

*'Egad!"  said  the  abbe,  "  the  rogue  is  right;  I 
quite  forgot  the  fact,  which  he  points  out  clearly 
enough." 


THE  PAINTER'S   /iAA'i,A/,\\  205 

"  No,  no,  Gambouge,"  continued  Diabolus,  with 
horrid  familiarity,  "go  thy  ways,  old  fellow:  that 
cock  won't Jighty  And  he  retired  up  the  chimney, 
chuckling  at  his  wit  and  his  triumph.  Gambouge 
heard  his  tail  scuttling  all  the  way  up,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  sweeper  by  profession. 

Simon  was  left  in  that  condition  of  grief  in  which, 
according  to  the  newspapers,  cities  and  nations  are 
found  when  a  murder  is  committed,  or  a  lord  ill  of 
the  gout,  —  a  situation,  we  say,  more  easy  to  ima- 
gine than  to  describe. 

To  add  to  his  woes,  Mrs.  Gambouge,  who  was  now 
first  made  acquainted  with  his  compact,  and  its 
probable  consequences,  raised  such  a  storm  about 
his  ears,  as  made  him  wish  almost  that  his  seven 
years  were  expired.  She  screamed,  she  scolded,  she 
swore,  she  wept,  she  went  into  such  fits  of  hysterics, 
that  poor  Gunbouge,  who  had  completely  knocked 
under  to  her,  was  worn  out  of  his  life.  He  wao 
allowed  no  rest,  night  or  day :  he  moped  about 
his  fine  house,  solitary  and  \\Tetched,  and  cursed 
his  stars  that  he  ever  had  married  the  butcher  > 
daughter. 

It  wanted  six  months  of  the  time. 

A  sudden  and  desperate  resolution  seemed  al»   at 


J't:>6  TREAS  URE.  TRO  VE. 

C'nce  to  have  taken  possession  of  Simon  Gambouge. 
]Ie  called  his  family  and  his  friends  together;  he 
c:ave  one  of  the  greatest  feasts  that  ever  was  known 
in  the  city  of  Paris;  he  gayly  presided  at  one  end 
of  his  table,  while  Mrs.  Gambouge,  splendidly  ar- 
rayed, gave  herself  airs  at  the  other  extremity. 

After  dinner,  using  the  customary  formula,  he 
called  upon  Diabolus  to  appear.  The  old  ladies 
screamed,  and  hoped  he  would  not  appear  naked; 
the  youno^  ones  tittered,  and  longed  to  see  the  mon- 
ster; everybody  was  pale  with  expectation  and 
affright. 

A  very  quiet,  gentlemanly  man,  neatly  dressed  in 
black,  made  his  appearance,  to  the  surprise  of  all 
present,  and  bowed  all  round  to  the  company.  "  I 
will  not  show  my  credentials i^''  he  said,  blushing, 
and  pointing  to  his  hoofs,  which  were  cleverly  hid- 
den by  his  pumps  and  shoe-buckles,  "  unless  the  la- 
dies absolutely  wish  it;  but  I  am  the  person  you 
want,Mr.Gambouge,  pray  tell  me  what  is  your  will. 

"  You  know,"  said  that  gentleman,  in  a  stately 
and  determined  voice,  "  that  you  are  bound  to  me, 
according  to  our  agreement,  for  six  months  to 
come." 

"  I  am,"  replied  the  new-comer. 


THE   PAfNTRK'S   HA  KG  A  IN.  207 

"  You  are  to  do  all  that  I  ask,  whatsoever  11  may 
be,  or  you  forfeit  the  bond  which  1  gave  you  ?  " 

•*  It  is  true." 

"  Vou  declare  this  before  the  present  company  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,"  said  Diabolus, 
bowing,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  waistcoat 

A  whisper  of  applause  ran  round  the  room.  Ali 
were  charmed  with  the  bland  manners  of  the  fasci- 
nating stranger. 

"  My  love."  continued  Gambouge,  mildly  address- 
ing his  lady,  "  "'ill  you  be  so  polite  as  to  step  this 
way  ?  You  know  I  m»«st  go  soon ;  and  I  am  anxious, 
before  this  noble  company,  to  m-xke  a  provision  for 
one  who,  in  sickness  as  in  health,  in  poverty  as  in 
riches,  has  been  my  truest  and  fondest  companion." 

Gambouge  mopped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief  • 
all  the  company  did  likewise.  Diabolus  sobbed 
audibly ;  and  Mrs.  Gambouge  sidled  up  to  her  hus- 
oand's  side,  and  took  him  tenderly  by  the  hand. 
"  Simon,"  said  she,  "  is  it  true  ?  And  do  you  really 
love  your  Griskinissa  t  " 

Simon  continued  solemnly,  "  Come  hither,  Diabo- 
lus: you  are  bound  to  obey  me  in  all  things  fo! 
die  six  months  during  which  our  contract  has  to  nin  . 
take,  then.  Griskinissa  Gambouge,  live    alone  witi 


eo8  TREAS  URE-TRO  VE. 

her  for  half  a  year,  never  leave  her  from  mornirg 
till  night,  obey  all  her  caprices,  follow  all  her 
whims,  and  listen  to  all  the  abuse  which  falls  from 
her  infernal  tongue.  Do  this,  and  I  ask  no  more 
of  you;  I  will  deliver  myself  up  at  the  appointed 
time." 

Not  Lord  G when  flogged  by  Lord   B 

in  the  House, — not  Mr.  Cartlitch  of  Astley's  Am- 
phitheatre \x\.  his  most  pathetic  passages,  could  look 
more  crestfallen,  and  howl  more  hideously,  than 
Diabolus  did  now.  "  Take  another  year,  Gam- 
bouge,"  screamed  he;  "two  more — ten  more — a 
century;  roast  me  on  Lawrence's  gridiron, boil  me 
in  holy  water:  but  don't  ask  that.  Don't,  don't  ask 
me  to  live  with  Mrs.  Gambouge!  " 

Simon  smiled  sternly.  "  I  have  said  it,"  he 
cried:  *'  do  this,  or  our  contract  is  at  an  end." 

The  Devil,  at  this,  grinned  so  horribly,  that  every 
drop  of  beer  in  the  house  turned  sour;  he  gnashed 
his  teeth  so  frightfully,  that  every  person  in  the  com- 
pany well-nigh  fainted  with  the  colic.  He  slapped 
down  the  great  parchment  upon  the  floor,  trampled 
upon  it  madly,  and  lashed  it  with  his  hoofs  and  his 
tail ;  at  last,  spreading  out  a  mighty  pair  of  wings  as 
wide  as  from  here  to  Regent  Street,  he  slapped 


THE   PAINTER'S   B  A  KG  A  IN.  209 

Gambouge  with   his   tail  over  one  eye,  and  vanished 
abniptly  through  the  keyhole. 

Gambouge    screamed  with    pain,  and    started   up. 

You  drunken,  lazy  scoundrel  1  "  cried  a  shrill  and 
M ell-known  voice,  "you  have  been  asleep  these 
two  hours  ; "  and  here  he  received  another  terrific 
box  on  the  ear. 

It  was  too  true,  he  had  fallen  asleep  at  his  work  ; 
and  the  beautiful  vision  had  been  dispelled  by  the 
thui.ips  of  the  tipsy  Griskinissa.  Nothing  remained 
to  corroborate  his  story,  except  the  bladder  of  lake, 
and  this  was  spurted  all  over  his  waistcoat  and 
breeches. 

•*  I  wish,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  rubbing  his  tin- 
gling cheeks,  "that  dreams  were  true;"  and  he  went 
*^o  work  again  at  his  portrait. 

My  last  accounts  of  Gambouge  are,  that  he  ha3 
left  the  arts,  and  is  footman  in  a  small  family.  MrS. 
Gambouge  takes  in  washing ;  and  it  is  said  that  her 
continual  dealings  with  soap-suds  and  hot  »v'ater 
have  been  the  only  things  in  life  which  have  kept 
her  from  spontaneous  combustion. 


THE  LADY  ROHESIA. 


BY    RICHARD    H,    BARHAM. 


HE  Lady  Rohesia  lay  on  her  death-bed. 
So   said  the   doctor  j  and  doctors    are 
generally  allowed  to  be  judges  m  these 
matters;  besides,  Dr.  Butts  was  the  court 
physician;  he  carried  a  crutch-handled  staff,  with 
its  cross  of  the  blackest  ebony, — raison  de  plus. 
"  Is  there  no  hope,  doctor? "  said  Beatrice  Gray. 
"  Is  there  no  hope?"  said  Everard  Ingoldsby. 
"  Is    there    no    hope  ? "  said  Sir  Guy  de  Mont- 
gomeri.     He  was  the  Lady  Rohesia's  husband;  he 
spoke  the  last. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  He  looked  at  the 
disconsolate  widower  i?i  posse,  then  at  the  hour- 
glass: its  waning  sand  seemed  sadly  to  shadow 
forth  the  sinking  pulse  of  his  patient.  Dr.  Butts 
was  a  very  learned  man.  "  Ars  longa^  vita  bre- 
vis!''  said  Dr.  Butts. 


THE  LADY  MOHRSIA.  »»1 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  quoth  Sir  Guy  da 
Wontgomeri. 

Sir  Guy  ws^  a  brave  knight,  and  a  tall ;  but  he 
was  no  scholar. 

•*  Alas,  my  poor  sister  1 "  sighed  Ingoldsby. 

"  Alas,  my  poor  mistress  1  "  sobbed  Beatrice. 

Sir  Guy  neither  sighed  nor  sobbed  :  his  grief  was 
too  deep-seated  for  outward  manifestation. 

"  And  how  long,  doctor "  —  The  afflicted  hus- 
band could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

Dr.  Butts  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  wrist  of  the 
lying  lady.  He  pointed  to  the  horologe  :  scarcely  a 
quarter  of  its  sand  remained  in  the  upper  moiety. 
Again  he  shook  his  head.  The  eye  of  the  patient 
walked  dimmer,  the  rattling  in  the  throat  increased. 

"  What's  become  of  Father  Francis?  "  whimpered 
Bf^atrice. 

"  The  last  consolations  of  the  church  "  —  sug- 
gested Everard. 

A  darker  shade  came  over  the  brow  of  Sir  Guy. 

"  Where  is  the  confessor?  "  continued  his  ^lieving 
brother-in-law. 

"  In  the  pantry,"  cried  Marion  Racket  pertly,  as 
sne  tripped  down  stairs  in  search  of  that  venerable 
ecclesiastic,  —  "in  the  pantry,  I  warrant  me."     The 


»IS 


TREA  S  URE-  Tk  O  VK. 


bowfr-woman  was  not  wont  to  be  in  the  wrong  :  in 
the  pantry  was  the  holy  man  discovered  —  at  his 
devotions. 

'■'Fax  vobiscumf"  said  Father  Francia,  as  he 
entered  the  chamber  of  death. 

"  Vita  brrvis  !  "  retorted  Dr.  Butts.  He  was  not 
a  man  to  be  browbeat  out  of  his  Latin,  and  by  a 
paltry  Friar  Minim,  too.  Had  it  been  a  bishop  in- 
deed, or  even  a  mitred  abbot,  —  but  a  miserable 
Franciscan  ! 

''  Berudicite  r^  said  the  friar. 

"  Ars  iongaf"  returned  the  leech. 

Dr.  Butts  adjusted  the  tassels  of  his  falling  band, 
drew  his  short  sad-colored  cloak  closer  around  him, 
and,  grasping  his  cross-handled  walking-staff,  stalked 
majestically  out  of  the.  apartment  Father  Franci** 
had  the  field  to  himself. 

The  worthy  chaplain  hastened  to  administer  the 
last  rites  of  the  church.  To  all  appearance  he  had 
little  time  to  lose.  As  he  concluded,  the  dismal 
toll  of  the  passing-bell  sounded  from  the  belfry'- 
tower :  little  Huben,  the  bandj^-legged  sacristan, 
was  pulling  with  all  his  might.  It  was  a  capital 
contrivance  that  same  passing-bell,  —  which  of  thr 
Urbans  o\    Innocents  invented   it  is   a  query  ;  but. 


THE   LADY  ROM  ESI  A.  a  13 

whoever  he  was,  he  deserved  well  of  his  country  and 
of  Christendom. 

Ah !  our  ancestors  were  not  such  fools,  after  all, 
as  we,  their  degenerate  children,  conceit  them  to 
have  been.  The  passing-bell,  a  most  solemn  warn- 
•ng  to  imps  of  every  description,  is  not  to  be  re- 
garded with  impunity :  the  most  impudent  Succubus 
of  them  all  dare  as  well  dip  his  claws  in  holy  water 
as  come  within  the  verge  of  its  sound.  Old  Nick 
himself,  if  he  sets  any  value  at  all  upon  his  tail,  had 
best  convey  himself  clean  out  of  hearing,  and  leave 
the  way  open  to  paradise.  Little  Hubert  continued 
pulling  with  all  his  might;  and  St.  Peter  began  to 
look  out  for  a  customer. 

The  knell  seemed  to  have  some  effect  even  upon 
the  Lady  Rohesia :  she  raised  her  head  slightly ; 
inarticulate  sounds  issued  from  her  lips.  —  inarticu- 
late, that  is,  to  the  profane  ears  of  the  laity.  Those 
of  Father  Francis,  indeed,  were  sharper :  nothing, 
as  he  averred,  could  be  more  distinct  than  the 
words,  "A  thousand  marks  to  the  priory  of  St 
Mary  Rouncival." 

Now,  the  Lady  Rohesia  Ingoldsbyhad  brought  her 
husband  broad  lands  and  large  possessions ;  much 
of  her  ample  dow^y,  too,  was  at  her  own  disposal ; 


TREASURE-  TRO  ^  E. 

anJ  nuncupative  wills  had  not  yet  been  abolished  \  # 
act  of  parliament. 

"Pious  soul!"  ejaculated  Father  Francis.  "A 
thousand  marks,  she  said  "  — 

"If  she  did,  I'll  be  shot!"  said  Sir  Guy  dc 
Montgomeri. 

"  A  thousand  marks,"  continued  the  confessor, 
fixing  his  cold  gray  eye  upon  the  knight,  as  he  went 
on,  heedless  of  the  interruption,  —  "a  thousand 
marks ;  and  as  many  aves  and  paters  shall  be  duly 
said —  as  soon  as  the  money  is  paid  down." 

Sir  Guy  shrank  from  the  monk's  gaze :  he  turne.d 
to  the  window,  and  muttered  to  himself  somethii.g 
that  sounded  like,  "Don't  you  wish  you  may  get 
it?" 


The  bell  continued  to  toll.  Father  Francis  had 
quitted  the  room,  taking  with  him  the  remains  of 
the  holy  oil  he  had  been  using  for  extreme  unction. 
Everard  Ingoldsby  waited  on  him  down  stairs. 

"  A  thousand  thanks  !  "  said  the  latter. 

"  A  thousand  marks  !  "  said  the  friar. 

"  A  thousand  devils  !  "  growled  Sir  Guy  de  Mont- 
gomeri from  the  top  of  the  landing-place. 


THE  LADY  ROHESIA. 


«»5 


But  his  accents  fell  unheeded  :  his  brother-in-law 
and  the  friar  were  gone  \  he  was  left  alone  with  his 
departing  lady  and  Beatrice  Grey. 

Sir  Guy  de  Montgomeri  stood  pensively  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  ;  his  arms  were  crossed  upon  hii 
bosom  ;  his  chin  was  sunk  upon  his  breast  ;  his  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears ;  the  dim  rays  of  the  fading 
witchlight  gave  a  darker  shade  to  the  furrows  on 
his  brow,  and  a  brighter  tint  to  the  little  bald  patch 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  —  for  Sir  Guy  was  a  middle- 
aged  gentleman,  tall  and  portly  withal,  with  a  slight 
bend  in  his  shoulders,  but  that  not  much  ;  his  com- 
plexion was  somewhat  florid,  —  especially  about  the 
nose ;  but  his  lady  was  in  extremis^  and  at  this 
particular  moment  he  was  paler  than  usual. 

"  Bim  I  home ! "  went  the  bell.  The  knight 
groaned  audibly ;  Beatrice  Grey  wiped  her  eye  with 
her  little  square  apron  of  lace  de  Malines  ;  there 
was  a  moment's  pause,  —  a  moment  of  intense  afflic- 
tion ;  she  let  it  fall,  —  all  but  one  comer,  which 
remained  between  her  finger  and  thumb.  She 
looked  at  Sir  Guy,  drew  the  thumb  and  forefinger 
of  her  other  hand  slowly  along  its  border,  till  they 
reached  the  opposite  extremity.  She  sobbed  aloud. 
"  So  kind  a  lady  I  '*  said  Beatrice  Grey.     "  So  excel- 


si6 

lent  a  wife  !  "  responded  Sir  Guy.  "  So  good  I  " 
said  the  damsel.  "  So  dear  1 "  said  the  knight. 
"So  pious  1"  said  she.  "So  humble  I"  said  he. 
"  So  good  to  the  poor  1  "  — "  So  capital  a  man- 
ager !  "  —  "  So  punctual  at  matins  I "  —  "  Dinne- 
dished  to  moment ! "  —  "  So  devout  1 "  said  Beatrice. 
"So  fond  of  me!''  said  Sir  Guy.  "And  of  Father 
Francis  !  "  —  '*  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by 
that  ? "  said  Sir  Guy  Montgomeri. 

The  knight  and  the  maiden  had  wrung  their 
antiphonic  changes  on  the  fine  qualities  of  the 
departing  lady,  like  the  strophe  and  antistrophe  of 
a  Greek  play.  The  cardinal  virtues  once  disposed 
of,  her  minor  excellences  came  under  review.  She 
•yould  drown  a  witch,  drink  lamb's  wool  at  Christ- 
mas, beg  Dominie  Dumps's  boys  a  holiday,  and  dine 
upon  sprats  on  Good  Friday.  A  low  moan  trom 
the  subject  of  these  eulogies  seemed  to  intimate 
that  the  enumeration  of  her  good  deeds  was  not 
altogether  lost  on  her,  that  the  parting  spirit  felt 
and  rejoiced  in  the  testimony. 

"  She  was  too  good  for  earth,"  continued  Six 
Guy. 

"  Ye-ye-yes  1  "  sobbed  Beatrice. 

**  I  did  not  deserve  her !  "  said  the  knight 


THE    i./DY  KOflESlA. 

'*  No-o-o-o  !  "  cried  the  damsel. 

"  Not  but  that  I  made  her  an  excellent  husband, 
and  a  kind;  but  she  is  going,  and  —  and  —  where 
or  when  or  how  —  shall  I  get  such  another?" 

"  Not  in  broad  England,  not  in  the  whole  wide 
world  !  "  responded  Beatrice  Grey ;  "  that  is,  not 
just  such  another."  Her  voice  still  faltered  ;  but 
her  accents,  on  the  whole,  were  more  articulate. 
She  dropped  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  had 
recourse  to  her  handkerchief ;  in  fact,  her  eyes  were 
getting  red  —  and  so  was  the  tip  of  her  nose. 

Sir  Guy  was  silent :  he  gazed  for  a  few  moments 
steadfastly  on  the  face  of  his  lady.  The  single 
word,  "  Another  1 "  fell  from  his  lips  like  a  distant 
echo :  it  is  not  often  that  the  viewless  nymph 
repeats  more  than  is  necessary. 

"  Bim  !  bome  I  "  went  the  bell.  Bandy-legged 
Hubert  had  been  tolling  for  half  an  hour :  he  began 
to  grow  tired,  and  St.  Peter  fidgety. 

"  Beatrice  Grey ! "  said  Sir  Guy  de  Montgomeri, 
"  what's  to  be  done  ?  What's  to  become  of  Mont- 
gomeri Hall  ?  —  and  the  buttery  —  and  the  ser- 
vants ?  And  what  —  what's  to  become  of  n", 
Beatrice  Grey?"  There  was  pathos  in  hi*  tor^e* 
and  a  solemn  pause  succeeded.  "  I'll  tarn  monk 
myself  I  "  said  Sir  Ga^ 


?  r  i  TMEASURE-rRO  VB, 

"*  Monk  ? "  said  Beatrice. 

"  I'll  be  a  Carthusian  I "  repeated  the  knight,  but 
in  a  tone  less  assured :  he  relapsed  Into  a  revery. 
Shave  his  head  1  —  he  did  not  so  much  mind  that, 
he  was  getting  rather  bald  already ;  but  beans  for 
dinner,  and  those  without  butter  —  and  then  a 
horse-hair  shirt ! 

The  knight  seemed  undecided :  his  eye  roamed 
gloomily  around  the  apartment :  it  paused  upon 
different  objects,  but  as  if  it  saw  them  not.  Its 
sense  was  shut,  and  there  was  no  speculation  in  its 
glance  :  it  rested  at  last  upon  the  fair  face  of  the 
s;ympathizing  damsel  at  his  side,  beautiful  in  her 
grief. 

Her  tears  had  ceased;  but  her  eyes  were  cast 
down,  mournfully  fixed  upon  her  delicate  little  foot, 
which  was  beating  the  devil's  tattoo. 

There  is  no  talking  to  a  female  when  sh ;  does 
not  look  at  you.  Sir  Guy  turned  round ;  he  seated 
himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and,  placing  his 
hand  beneath  the  chin  of  the  lady,  turned  up  her 
face  in  an  angle  of  fifteen  degrees. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  take  the  vows,  Beatrice  ^ 
but  what's  to  become  of  me  ?  Poor,  miserable,  old 
—  that  is,  poo'    wjjserable,  middle-aged  man   that  I 


THE   LADY  ROHKS/A.  219 

i»wn  !  No  one  to  comfort,  no  one  to  care  for  me.'' 
Beatrice's  tears  flowed  afresh ;  but  she  opened  noi 
ler  lips.  "  'Pon  my  life  !  "  continued  he,  "  I  don't 
believe  there  is  a  creature  now  would  care  a  button 
f  I  were  hanged  to-morrow  1 " 

"Oh,  don't  say  so,  Sir  Guy!"  sighed  Beatrice. 
*  You  know  there's  —  there's  Master  Everard  and  — 
and  Father  Francis  "  — 

♦*  Pish  !  "  cried  Sir  Guy  testily. 

*'  And  —  there's  your  favorite  old  bitch." 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  old  bitches,''  quoth  Sir 
Guy  de  Montgomeri. 

Another  pause  ensued.  The  knight  had  released 
her  chin,  and  taken  her  hand :  it  was  a  pretty  little 
hand ;  with  long  taper  fingers  and  filbert-formed 
nails ;  and  the  softness  of  the  palm  said  little  for  its 
owner's  industry'. 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear  Beatrice,"  said  the  knight 
thoughtfully :  "  you  must  be  fatigued  with  your  long 
watching.  Take  a  seat,  my  child."  Sir  Guy  did 
not  relinquish  her  hand  ;  but  he  sidled  along  the 
counterpane,  and  made  room  for  his  companion 
between  himself  and  the  bed-post. 

Now,  this  is  a  very  awkwara  position  for  two  peo- 
ple to  be  Waced  in,  especiaitly  when  the  nght  hand 


320 

^f  the  one  holds  the  right  hand  of  the  other:  in 
such  an  attitude,  what  the  deuse  can  the  gentleman 
do  with  his  left  ?  Sir  Guy  closed  his  till  it  became 
an  absolute  fist,  and  his  knuckles  rested  on  the 
bed  2.  little  in  the  rear  of  his  companion. 

"  Another,"  repeated  Sir  Guy,  musing,  —  "if, 
indeed,  1  could  find  such  another."  He  was  talking 
TO  his  thought ;  but  Beatrice  Grey  answered  him. 

•*  There's  Madam  Fitzfoozle." 

*'  A  frump  !  "  said  Sir  Guy. 

"Or  the  Lady  Bumbarton.' 

''  With  her  hump  1 "  muttered  he, 

'•'  There's  the  aowager  "  — 

"  Stop,  stop  1  "  said  the  knight,  "  stop  one  mo- 
aient"  He  paused  :  he  was  all  on  the  tremble. 
Something  seemed  rising  in  his  throat ;  but  he  gave 
a  great  gulp,  and  swallowed  it  "  Beatrice,"  said  he, 
"  what  think  you  of "  (his  voice  sank  into  a  most 
seductive  softness),  —  "  what  think  you  of  —  Beatrice 
Grey.?" 

The  murder  was  out  r  the  knight  felt  infinitely 
relieved.  The  knuckles  of  his  left  hand  unclosed 
spontaneously  ;  and  the  arm  he  had  felt  such  a  diffi- 
ailty  in  disposing  of  found  itself,  nobody  knows- 
how,  all  at  once  encircling  the  jimp  waist    of    the 


231 

f  retty  Beatrice.  The  young  lady's  reply  was 
•  jcpressed  in  three  syllables.  They  were,  "  Oh,  Sir 
iJuy  1  "  The  words  might  be  somewhat  indefinite  ; 
but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  look.  Their  eyes 
met.  Sir  Guy's  left  arm  contracted  itself  spasmod- 
ically :  when  the  eyes  meet  (at  least,  as  theirs  met), 
the  lips  are  very  apt  to  follow  the  example.  The 
knight  had  taken  one  long,  loving  kiss,  nectar  and 
ambrosia.  He  thought  on  Dr.  Butts  and  his  r^e- 
tatur  hausius  (a  prescription  Father  Francis  had 
taken  infinite  pains  to  translate  for  him)  ;  he  was 
about  to  repeat  it;  but  the  dose  was  interrupted 
in  transitu.     Doubtless  the  adage,  — 

"  There's  many  a  slip 
Twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip,** 

hath  reference  to  medicine.     Sir  Guy's  lip  was  again 

all  but  in  conjunction  with  that  of  his  bride  elect. 

It  has  been  hinted  already  that  there  was  a  little 
round  polished  patch  on  the  summit  of  the  knight's 
pericranium^  from  which  his  locks  had  gradually 
receded  ;  a  sort  of  oasis^  or  rather  a  Mont  Blanc  in 
miniature,  rising  above  the  highest  point  of  vegeta- 
tion. It  was  on  this  little  spot,  undefended  alike  by 
art  and  nature,  that,  at  this  interesting  moment,  a 


922  TREASURE-  TRO  VE. 

blow  descended,  such  as  we  must  borrow  a  term 
fom  the  Sister  Island  adequately  to  describe:  it 
uas  a  "Whack!" 

Sir  Guy  started  upon  his  feet.  Beatrice  Grey 
started  upon  hers  ;  but  a  single  glance  to  the  rear 
leversed  her  position:  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and 
screamed. 

The  knight,  too,  wheeled  about,  and  beheld  a 
sight  which  might  have  turned  a  bolder  man  to 
stone.  It  was  she  —  the  all-but-defunct  Rohesia! 
There  she  sat,  bolt  upright ;  her  eyes  no  longer 
glazed  with  the  film  of  impending  dissolution,  but 
scintillating  like  flint  and  steel,  while  in  her  hand 
she  grasped  the  bed-staff,  —  a  weapon  of  mickle 
might,  as  her  husband's  bloody  coxcomb  could  now 
well  testify.  Words  were  yet  wanting ;  for  the 
quinsy,  which  her  rage  had  broken,  still  impeded 
her  utterance  ;  but  the  strength  and  rapidity  of  h<:r 
guttural  intonations  augured  well  for  her  future 
eloquence. 

Sir  Guy  de  Montgomeri  stood  for  a  while  like  a 
man  distraught.  This  resurrection  (for  such  it 
seemed)  had  quite  overpowered  him.  "  A  husband 
ofttimes  makes  the  best  physician,"  says  the  proverb. 
He  was  a  living  personification  of  its  truth.     Still  it 


vras  whispered  he  had  been  content  with  Dr.  Butts ; 
but  his  lady  was  restored  to  bless  him  for  many 
years.     Heavens,  what  a  life  he  led  I 

The    Lady   Rohesia    mended   apace  ;  her  quinsy 

...  cured  ;  the  bell  was  stopped,  and  little  Hubert, 
the  sacristan,  kicked  out  of  the  chapelry.  St.  Peter 
opened  his  wicket,  and  looked  out.  There  was 
nobody  there  :  so  he  flung  to  the  gate  in  a  passion, 
and  went  back  to  his  lodge,  grumbling  at  being 
hoaxed  by  a  runaway  nng. 

Years  rolled  on.  The  improvement  of  Ladv 
Rohesia's  temper  did  not  keep  pace  with  that  of 
her  health  ;  and  one  fine  morning  Sir  Guy  de  Mont 
gomeri  was  seen  to  enter  the  porte-cochere  of  Durham 
House,  at  that  time  the  town  residence  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter Raleigh.  Nothing  more  was  ever  heard  of  him  ; 
hut  a  boat  full  of  adventurers  was  known  to  have 
dropped  down  with  the  tide  that  evening  to  Dept 
'ord  Hope,  where  lay  the  good  ship  "  The  Darling," 
commanded  by  Capt.  Keymis,  who  sailed  next 
mornirg  on  the  Virginia  voyage. 

A  brass  plate,  some  eighteen  inches  long,  may 
yet  be  seen  in  Denton  chancel,  let  into  a  broad  slab 
of  Bethersden  marble :  it  represents  a  lady  kneel- 
ing in  her  wimp,    and  hood  •  her  hands  are  clasped 


124  TREASURE-TROVE, 

Xi  prayer  ;  and  beneath  is  an  inscription  in  the  cluu^ 

acters  of  the  age,  — 

"  IDratc  for  '^i  sobU  ef  gc  l^Hg  IMsf t, 
anO  for  allc  Cfjristm  soiuUsI'* 

The  date  is  illegible  ;  but  it  appears  that  she  sur- 
vived King  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  that  the  dissolu- 
tion of  monasteries  had  lost  St  Mar}'  Rouncival 
her  thousand  marks.  As  for  Beatrice  Grey,  it  is 
well  known  that  she  was  alive  in  1559,  and  then  had 
nrginity  enough  left  to  be  a  maid  of  honor  to 
"  ^ood  Queen  Bess." 


^^iJnifS^^ 


i|imiiin«iiiiii 


B    000017747" 


_^  _^- 


4 Vrh%r '  ^^^^.« 


